


Slide Away

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental sex tape, Actor Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel makes Assumptions, Castiel/Dean Winchester Break Up, Dean Winchester Makes Assumptions, Did I mention they are idiots?, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fame, Famous Dean Winchester, Gay Sex, Idiots back to lovers, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Photo Shoots, Photographer Castiel (Supernatural), Public Relations, Relationship Issues, Semi-Public Sex, Talk Shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Since meeting and falling in love in front of the camera a decade ago, movie star Dean Winchester and his husband, celebrity photographer Castiel, have been the media’s darlings. From the outside, it truly appears as if the couple has it all: fame, fortune, fans and most of all, a profound and unshakeable bond that sees them through all the highs and lows.Behind the scenes, everything is not as it seems. Beyond carefully-curated sets of photos and filters, Dean and Castiel have been falling apart for years. Their marriage is essentially over, the latest victim in Hollywood’s merciless grinder. As a last-ditch effort to punch out some positive PR before news of their split breaks, the boys agree to do one last PR stunt—a recreation of the photos that made the world fall in love with them (while they were falling for each other).Will this plan drive their relationship over the edge permanently? Or will Dean and Castiel finally realize that their fans aren’t the only ones who have been fooled by all the smoke and mirrors? Misunderstandings, miscommunication, and mistrust are only the beginning. But if our heroes can push past those mistakes, perhaps they can learn that it's never too late to start all over again.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, background Lisa/Dean - Relationship, mentions of Castiel/others - Relationship
Comments: 908
Kudos: 1232
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Slide Away

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is COMPLETE! It is 50k total ~~and will be serial posting weekly on Mondays, possibly twice/week on Monday & Friday once the second piece of art is finished.~~  
> Yes, Art! [Sunny](blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com) is making two amazing pieces, the first is in Chapter 2 and the other is in the final chapter. Yay, Sunny!
> 
> A big thanks to [CoinofStone](coinofstone.tumblr.com) and [Olive](olivegray33.tumblr.com) for the alpha/editing assist and to [Ellen](ellen-of-oz.tumblr.com) for the beta & polish :-*
> 
> Note on content: Tags are complete, if there's something I forgot, I'll be sure to add it at the top of the chapter. There is NO CHEATING. Dean & Cas are separated and there are mentions of dating other people. They both throw cheating accusations back and forth. They are both idiots. Please remember the #1 tag in this fic is miscommunication/misunderstandings! If you need more clarification than that, feel free to DM me on [Twitter](twitter.com/caslostwings)or [Tumblr](castielslostwings.tumblr.com). :)
> 
> And um, no this is definitely not very loosely based on Miley & Liam's romance and Cas definitely does not live in [Miley's old house in the Hills](http://www.lonny.com/See+Miley+Cyrus's+Tuscan-Style+Mansion+in+Los+Angeles). Merp.

“So, real estate-wise, you get the house in the Hills and I’ll keep the oceanfront in Malibu. Easy. We’ve been on the same page about that one from the jump.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and leans back in the plush leather chair he’s occupying. He toys with the rim of the half-full glass of ice water set on the long wooden table in front of him and shrugs. “Sure, Dean. You know so much about the things I care about.”

Across said table, Castiel’s soon-to-be ex-husband sighs and flicks his sunglasses down from where they’re perched atop his head so that they cover his eyes. _What a douchebag move,_ Castiel thinks as he watches Dean shift back further into his own chair and lift his hands in fed-up resignation at his lawyer. _Arrogant prick._

“We’re really gonna do this again?” Dean complains. “Cas, we could have been done with this shit last week if you’d stop insisting on being a pain in my ass. You know, some of us have actual jobs, places to be.” Dean checks his watch. “I’ve got a flight to Bali in five hours.” 

“Don’t call me _Cas,”_ Castiel snaps. “The familiar cutening of my name implies we _like_ each other.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Dean mutters, displacing his glasses as he scrubs a hand over his face.

“And anyway,” Castiel continues derisively, ignoring Dean completely, “I’d hardly call jetting off to fuck your side whore in a tropical location _work.”_

“Hey now,” Dean shoots back, raising his voice. The way his tone goes up an octave, Castiel can tell that he’s actually pissed. _Good._ “Don’t bring Lisa into this.” 

“Oh ho,” Castiel replies with a snort. “ _I_ didn’t bring Lisa into _anything,_ least of all our marital bed. That was all you.” 

“Right, and that Inias asshole who does your lighting, I guess I hallucinated him blowing you in _our_ shower last week,” Dean shoots back.

Castiel just raises and drops his shoulders nonchalantly. “What’s good for the goose… I didn’t start this, Dean.”

“No, but you’re sure as hell going to finish it, aren’t you?” For a split second, Castiel hesitates. Dean’s sunglasses are still covering his eyes but Castiel could have _sworn_ that last comment held more than just a generous heaping of Dean’s token snark. If he didn’t know better, Castiel would say his husband almost sounded _hurt._ He narrows his eyes and regards Dean carefully, against his better judgment opening his mouth to say something that, for once, isn’t completely rude and snippy. Unfortunately, in true Dean fashion, he cuts Castiel off before he has the chance to get a word out. “Whatever, asshole. Do you actually _want_ the Malibu house, or are you just being a dick?”

Castiel closes his mouth and works his jaw. As annoying as it might be for him to admit, Dean is right. They’ve been hashing out this division of assets stuff for weeks, and Castiel’s petulance is only causing them to have to spend more time in each other’s presence, something Dean clearly resents. Castiel’s not even sure why he’s doing it, not really. At first, it was a way to frustrate Dean, to get his attention when absolutely nothing else would. Months of coming home to an empty house while Dean was off cavorting around the world with starlets and fans alike had made Castiel bitter and lonely, and Dean’s cavalier attitude about it all just made everything so much worse. He wants Dean to _suffer,_ to feel an ounce of the agony he’s dropped in Castiel’s lap. 

But Dean’s barely even a person anymore. For all Castiel knows, he doesn’t even _have_ feelings to hurt. Gone is the sweet man who made him mixtapes and looked at Castiel like he was the only person in a room full of hundreds. In his place is someone Castiel hasn’t recognized for years, a man who’s more smoke and mirrors than human, untouchable despite the thousands of ways Castiel remembers him begging to be touched in the past. Dean always wanted to be famous, always wanted to be a star. And now that he is, it would appear that he’s got no use for the man he promised to love forever, in sickness and in health, as long as they both shall live. 

“You’re right,” Castiel replies simply, watching as Dean’s eyebrows go up behind the glasses. “There’s no sense in bickering over material possessions, both of us have more than enough money to replace anything we might not get to keep. Though I do know _things_ are important to you, Dean, so if there’s something specific that you want, take it. It’ll be one less memory of you cluttering up my space. Now let’s get this over with, I wouldn’t want you to have to spend one more second than absolutely necessary in my presence.” 

Castiel grabs the packet of papers sitting in the middle of the table and scribbles his name and the date at the bottom, above his printed name. He hopes his words come out as sharply edged as he intends them, but he doesn’t look up to see if they land. 

Somewhere down the long table, Castiel hears Garth clear his throat expectantly. “What?” Castiel snaps, though when he looks up and sees their PR rep with an expectant look on his face, he can’t help but feel chastised. “Sorry,” he mutters, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest. He chances a glance up at Dean, but his husband’s head is down as he focuses on signing his name to the divorce filings. 

For a moment, Castiel flashes back to Dean signing their marriage certificate, all smiles and full of so much happiness it seemed to Castiel as if it was actually bubbling out of him. As soon as they’d each had their turn with the pen, Dean had grabbed his hand and tugged Castiel inside a nearby closet where they made out for the better part of an hour and ignored all of their wedding guests completely. It was fucking _bliss,_ one of the best days of Castiel’s life, no contest. 

“...and so, I know you guys are gonna hate me for this, but I can’t let you file that just yet.” 

“What?” Castiel’s head whips around and he immediately regrets making it so goddamn obvious that he wasn’t listening. He can only hope no one decides to press him about what was so distracting inside his mind. _Still Dean,_ he thinks almost wistfully, shelving that depressing thought as quickly as it comes. 

But Garth just sighs and spreads his hands in an open plea. “As soon as you file that, the info’s public. The press is going to pounce.” 

“Yes, Garth, Dean and I are well aware of those particular celebrity perks, thank you.”

“Hold up, Cas,” Dean interjects patiently. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, and it brings Castiel up short. “He’s got a point, just listen.” 

Garth’s gaze darts between them and he thanks Dean with a nod. Castiel just quirks a brow and waits, after all, he’s the rude one who wasn’t paying attention the first time. “Right, the thing is, I’m worried,” Garth continues. “Your teams have been following your social media impact. You know, the ways your fans engage and talk about you online?” Not a big fan of social media himself, Castiel isn’t sure he wants to know what’s coming next. “You two have built your brands on each other’s backs. Everything about each of you is twisted together on the internet.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Castiel scoffs. “We haven’t worked together in years.” 

“No,” Garth agrees patiently, “But your personal brand is intertwined with each of your professional ones. People love _you,_ the unit. They care about your relationship as much as, maybe more than they care about each of you separately.” He hesitates, and Castiel grabs the opening.

“So what are you saying? We should stay in a relationship where we’re both utterly miserable so that our respective careers can catch a boost? No thank you,” he says with a note of disgust, clocking Dean rubbing at his temples the way that he does when he’s got a migraine coming on.

“Not exactly,” Garth hedges. “I know you guys were already prepared to make statements about an amicable split and maintain that you’re still friends, but I’m not sure it’ll be enough. Fans love to analyze body language and off-hand remarks, and there’s already quite a buzz circling about how you two not only seem to have fallen out of love, but that you can’t stand to be around each other at all.” Reflexively, Dean and Cas glance at each other, making eye contact over Dean’s stupid sunglasses for the first time since Dean had walked into the room ( _late)._ Castiel _hates_ that there’s still a spark in his belly when their eyes meet, _fucking hates it._

Dean looks away quickly and gestures for Garth to spit it out. “And?”

“Right, yea. So anyway, if Dean didn’t have _Mark of Cain_ dropping later this summer and Castiel, if your showcase weren’t right before that, I wouldn’t think it was all such a big deal. But this is _key_ PR time for both of those projects. Dean, this movie has the potential to smash box office records. Could be the difference between ‘Movie Star Dean Winchester’ and ‘Academy Award Winner Dean Winchester,’ if you know what I’m saying. And Cas, you’ve worked too long and hard to have some relationship gossip overshadow your best work and your biggest gallery event.” 

The two husbands sit silently as they contemplate what Garth is saying, neither of them outright reacting to Garth’s concerns. “But you’re big boys,” Garth says. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. The way I see it, there are two options here. One, you go ahead and file this sucker right now and we run damage control. Couple appearances on the talk show circuit; Dean, _The Tonight Show_ , Cas, _Ellen_ —”

“How come Cas gets _Ellen_?” Dean interrupts.

“Seriously, Dean? _That’s_ what you’re focused on?”

“He’s the gay one,” Garth replies easily, ignoring their banter, and Castiel tips his head in Garth’s direction, annoyed, while Dean snickers. 

“It’s not an insult, Dean,” Castiel fires off, and then adds almost as an afterthought, “Just because _you_ can’t pick a team.” It’s a low blow but it shuts Dean up instantly, though it also turns his expression stormy.

“Fuck you, _Cas_ ,” he growls pointedly. 

Castiel shrugs. “If you think you can,” he replies lightly, and Dean shoves back from the table, jumping to his feet. Castiel laughs, pleased that he’s finally managed to poke the sleeping bear into a frenzy.

“You see what I have to deal with? This is _exactly_ why—”

“You guys!” Garth slams a hand down on the table and Dean stops, shooting death glares at Castiel but reluctantly sinking back into his seat. Their lawyers barely flinch, faces buried in their mobile devices, probably using Winchester billable hours to surf Facebook. _Whatever._ It’s not as if this bickering is anything new, and they’ve never _actually_ come to blows (here). 

“C’mon, Garth. You gonna tell us the other option or are you waiting to see if Cas here actually wants to castrate me for my crimes?”

“Are you offering?”

“ _No,”_ Garth answers for Dean, cutting off the new budding spat. “Without pulling any punches, the other option is better for both of your careers, no question. You’re going to hate it, but you’re both professionals and I have _every_ reason to believe that if you can put your petty differences aside and _act_ like it, this is the best course of action for everyone involved.” 

“Well?” Castiel prompts when the silence in the room stretches out a shade too long.

“One last collab,” Garth says slowly. “Castiel shoots it, you both star in it. You haven’t worked together in years, both the press and your fans would kill for these exclusives. The premise is simple; one last photoshoot to prove to the world that you _are_ still friends, that there’s no animosity between you, that you still support and love each other even if you’re not together.” 

Dean snorts. “So, a raging lie, then.”

“Basically,” Garth replies with a nod. “If you can pull it off, we’ll sell the pictures exclusively to Vanity Fair, the spread will be spectacular. Mid-issue and cover, double-page, the works. I’ve already hammered out a potential deal with their contracts department and the piece will run a week before Castiel’s showcase and three weeks before Dean’s premiere. That’s _good_ publicity, you guys. No one is gonna be able to argue with pictures. Divorce papers, shmivorce papers. Or something.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see Dean watching him, evaluating his reaction. Clearly, he’s not willing to show his hand first but Castiel knows him better than he knows himself. Dean will do whatever’s best for his career, that’s not even a question. The only thing Castiel can hope to do at this point is go along with it, and pray that it doesn’t blow up in his face. “Sounds reasonable,” he replies evenly, and were it not for the subtle twitch of Dean’s jaw, Castiel might think he hadn’t heard. 

“Sure,” Dean responds eventually. “Just a few photos, right? Not a big deal.” 

“They have to be convincing or there’s no point,” Garth warns, and both Castiel and Dean nod.

“I’m an actor, you don’t gotta worry about me. Talk to Junkless over there about loosening up a little, maybe,” Dean snarks, inclining his head in Castiel’s direction.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees readily. “Your acting skills are so good that our fans have realized not only are we not in love but that we can’t stand to be in each other’s presence. Oscar quality.”

“Hey.” Dean shrugs. “Actor’s only as good as his scene partner.” For the umpteenth time since this horrifically tedious meeting started, Castiel rolls his eyes. He watches as Dean withdraws a flask from his pocket and takes a long swig, winking at Castiel when he catches him looking. _Asshole._ No way he doesn't know that Castiel’s dying for a drink right now, he definitely did that on purpose.

“There’s one more thing,” Garth interjects somewhat reluctantly and Castiel turns his attention back to him and away from his captivating jerk of a husband. “There was a caveat from Vanity Fair, one stipulation I had to agree to for them to be willing to buy the final product sight unseen.”

“And?” Castiel prods when Garth doesn’t immediately continue.

Garth sighs and seems to brace for the onslaught he knows is coming. “They want you to recreate the serial shoot from ten years ago, starting with when you first met and ending with the honeymoon. On location.” 

“They want…” Castiel drops his careful, stoic demeanor in favor of a horrified expression because fuck it, can’t hurt to be honest at this point. “You might as well ask us to raise the Titanic and sail it the rest of the way to New York, Garth. This is not going to happen.” 

“Seconded.” Dean chimes in quickly and the impact behind why the two of them can finally agree on something isn’t lost on Garth. “Dude, those pictures are one-of-a-kind for a _reason,”_ Dean insists, and Castiel nods vehemently. “There’s not… we aren’t…” He sighs in frustration and shakes his head. “We were falling in _love_ when those were taken. It was spontaneous, it was _raw_ and honest _._ Hell, we didn’t even know most of the good ones were being taken at the time. We couldn’t recreate that shit now if we tried. I’m with Cas, this is your Titanic, buddy.” 

“That’s not exactly what I said,” Castiel mutters and Dean sighs in exasperation, gesturing wildly at him.

“And _this_ is why. If our fans are calling out body language in a red carpet shot, what you’re asking for will be like pouring gas on the fire.” 

But Garth just bounces his pen between his thumb and forefinger, shrugging helplessly in response. “I don’t know what to tell you, my friends. This is the deal, no room for negotiation.” 

Dean groans and covers his face with his arm. “When?” is all he asks.

“I canceled your flight. Bali’s going to have to wait,” Garth replies apologetically and Castiel’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Dean this close to a tantrum in ages. The bottom of his face (the only part Castiel can see thanks to his over-dramatic elbow) is all splotchy red. It _would_ be satisfying, except that now he’s stuck with the irritable bastard for the foreseeable future. 

“Take her to sea, Mr. Murdoch,” Castiel mutters under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS look at my little line break at the end... I MADE A ART! don't mock me too hard, i'm proud of it 😂


	2. Malibu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picture is worth a thousand words. Dean and Cas' pictures are worth thousands of dollars and then some. That is, if they can hold in their resentment towards each other long enough to take any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late!! We were waiting on this lovely surprise which is...
> 
> [SUNNY](blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com) created some AMAZING art for this chapter!! You'll find it embedded towards the end. I'm still squeeing over it, how hot are these boys?!? Please leave Sunny some love here or on tumblr, and laugh at the fact that Sunny thought it was a good idea to get in the shower with clothes on to try and create a visual reference for Cas.
> 
> Related, a second piece by the Sunny the Great is coming with the last chapter! 
> 
> Adjacent news: Since you were all so patient and understanding, I'm upping posting to 2x/week, so you'll get another chapter on Friday. :)
> 
> Chapter warnings for background dean/lisa and a buttload of assumptions!

It’s been months since Castiel’s even visited the Malibu house, over a year since he and Dean have been there at the same time. It’s only an hour away from his home in the Hollywood Hills and technically Castiel has as much right to the oceanfront property as Dean. But the place that used to be his and Dean’s escape, their _sanctuary,_ just doesn’t feel welcoming to Castiel anymore. 

Besides, with their marriage falling apart, he and Dean have seemingly enacted an unspoken agreement to just draw a line straight down the middle and then stay on their respective sides. He’s not going to be the one to mess with that, as fun as riling Dean up might be. Dean fights dirty.

But he wasn’t wrong when he assumed Cas would want the house in the Hills, back in their mediation. It was Cas’ when they got together, just like the Malibu place was Dean’s. Back when they’d started sharing those spaces, Castiel had been an extreme pain in the ass about going to Malibu at all. He preferred the city, the ocean never sparking his interest the way it did for Dean. But Dean was persistent, encouraging, patiently showing Castiel everything there was to love about living on the beach and building memories with him at the same time. 

Sneaky bastard, Dean was, but his plan worked, and Castiel grew to love what became _their_ second home, their perfect escape from the hustle and bustle just as much. 

Even looking back now with everything he knows, it’s hard for Castiel to regret the life he built and the things he’s shared with his husband in this space. From the first time he laid eyes on Dean, to making love on their balcony overlooking the ocean, to baking together in the kitchen with the disappearing glass doors pulled back to bring the outside in. For every sunrise run in the sand and sunset swim in the water, to all of the family barbeques with nieces and nephews playing in the backyard, to Dean down on one knee in the sand, Castiel’s platinum wedding band shiny-new and gleaming in the dying rays of the evening California sun. 

There was their wedding on their own private beach, that horrible time they had to evacuate because of spreading wildfires, and even the memory of Dean slipping down the porch stairs and dislocating his shoulder in his haste to bring Castiel a letter announcing his first nomination for a major photography award. 

Kissing Dean, for hours, their legs intertwined over a beach towel, beer growing warm in the cooler and dinner growing cold inside the house. Spending hours together just talking, hiding from the world and watching the waves, searching the stars. Falling in love with Dean, while the whole world looked on from behind the lens of a camera and cheered. 

All of it, falling apart. 

Castiel wonders if Dean still struggles with that shoulder, if _Lisa_ rubs ointment into the joint after he works out or goes for a swim, or if Dean’s just ignoring the issue until it deteriorates into complete uselessness, just like the man it’s attached to. A wave of mixed emotions, jealousy and disgust and fury and something else Castiel’s not mentally capable of unpacking right at this moment swirls through him as he stands in the driveway of the Malibu house, leaning defeatedly against the side of his car, delaying the inevitable. 

Even the exterior of the house reminds him of Dean. All warm woods and stone facades in comforting shades of brown and tan, and Castiel wants nothing more than to turn around and go home. 

He supposes he still could, and for the hundred and seventh time since leaving his lawyer’s office, Castiel weighs the pros and cons of going through with this plan at all. And once again, just like every other time, he decides that his career is worth the hassle of putting up with Dean and faking the emotion behind a few intimate photos. Steeling himself for what’s ahead, Castiel shoulders his bags and heads inside. 

The main floor of the house is bustling with activity, which isn’t much of a surprise considering what it is they’re all attempting to pull off here on such short notice. The driveway’s packed with cars and vans and Castiel doesn’t know why he’s surprised, except that the last time he was here, it was completely silent and he was alone. The house feels different this way, and it doesn’t do much to put Castiel’s nerves at ease. 

Sighing, he skirts the edge of the foyer without drawing notice, taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor and heading for his favorite guest room. He supposes he could fight Dean for the master, be extremely petty just to annoy and frustrate the pants off of him, but that doesn’t seem worth it. At the very least, it won’t do anything to aid in the little game of make-believe they still have to play for the camera. 

It’d be funny though. 

Castiel’s smirk drops off his face immediately when he passes the master bedroom and sees a woman’s silk robe strewn across the giant bed that used to be his own. His stomach clenches and threatens to turn on him and that just pisses Castiel off more, because _what the fuck?_ Dean’s _clearly_ over him and has no qualms about displaying it, why the hell is it so hard for Castiel to get on the same page? 

After briefly contemplating ripping the stupid robe in half with his bare hands, Castiel forces himself to turn away and continue down the hallway. He slips inside the guest room and closes the door, stepping over to the balcony and opening its doors wide to let the fresh, Pacific salt air fill the space. Closing his eyes and inhaling several deep lungfuls, Castiel’s inner peace resurfaces and he’s able to calm down a bit more easily. 

_So what now?_

Distantly, Castiel can hear the sound of Dean’s voice drifting up from the porch directly below his room.

A drink. He _really_ could use a drink. 

Making his way back downstairs and into the main living space, Castiel’s _almost_ reached the wet bar without being seen when Garth swoops in out of nowhere and drapes an arm around his shoulders. “You made it!” Garth announces loudly, drawing the attention of literally everyone Castiel is trying to avoid. 

Glancing out towards where the disappearing doors have all been pushed back to leave the first floor open to the deck, Castiel makes accidental eye contact with Dean. He’s just standing out there, leaning casually against the porch railing while holding a beer, but just the sight of his face makes Castiel want to pick a fight. They both avert their eyes quickly and that’s the end of that… for now. 

“You ready to talk strategy and logistics, my friend?” Oblivious (perhaps intentionally) to Castiel’s inner turmoil, Garth slips effortlessly into peppy cheerleader mode, but Castiel isn’t so easily swayed. 

He breaks free from Garth’s grip and reaches over the bar to grab an already-open bottle of good whiskey, undoubtedly half-emptied by Dean himself. “This is a mistake,” Castiel mutters, dropping a giant piece of rounded ice into his glass before following with a heavy pour. “Garth, I’m not entirely sure that I can do this.” Tipping back the cup and taking a large sip, Castiel turns to face his sort-of friend and public relations manager. “I can’t even stand to be in the same room with him,” he hisses. “Staged pictures and photoshop can only cover so much. People aren’t going to buy this, if I can even manage to capture something that doesn’t make our current reality blatantly obvious. You said it yourself, our fans already see through it.” 

But Garth just shrugs and claps him on the shoulder. “Guess you’ll just have to dig deeper than that, my friend.” Unmoved, Castiel glares back at him silently and after a minute, Garth relents. “Alright,” he continues, pulling out a barstool for himself and motioning for Castiel to sit down. “Let’s, uh… Oh, I know. Let’s go back in time, close your eyes.” 

“No,” Castiel replies succinctly, draining his glass and pouring another. It would piss Dean off to high heaven to see him drinking the expensive stuff like a cheap vodka shot, which is just a bonus, really. He’s halfway through two more fingers when he realizes that Garth is still waiting patiently. “Fine,” Castiel grunts, plopping down on the stool and closing his eyes, one hand still holding the glass of whiskey. He can hear Garth clap and rub his hands together and rolls his eyes, even though no one can see. 

“Think back,” Garth says. “It’s the early 2000s. Flared jeans and trucker hats are all the rage. Teenage girls are wearing their dad’s ties as belts. Justin Timberlake is working hard at bringing sexy back and 'LOST' is not yet the greatest TV disappointment of our time.” Castiel snorts and takes another sip, but he keeps his eyes closed, humoring Garth. Mostly because it’s at least an excuse not to be tempted to stare at Dean. “Castiel Novak, up and coming photographer to the stars, is contracted to shoot a spread that will change his life, though he doesn’t know it yet.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Castiel protests. “This is incredibly cheesy.” 

“Shh,” Garth continues. “Just let yourself feel it.” 

Against his better judgment and all rational sense, Castiel does. Maybe it’s because his career depends on it, or maybe being back here again just makes it all too easy to slip into nostalgia for better times. With the ocean air blowing cool and soft across the back of his neck, Dean’s voice low and familiar in the background, and the reliable, steady hum of people with a job to do all around him, Castiel remembers. It’s not unlike the first time he walked into this very house, all those years ago. 

In his mind’s eye, the darkened outline of the beach and the water beyond the back of the house is replaced by bright sunshine and smiling faces. He’s surveying the setups, sidestepping all of the light reflectors and umbrellas set up by the pool, taking a few practice shots with the camera slung around his neck. He’s yet to meet the talent, some hotshot actor Castiel’s never heard of because he can’t be bothered to try and keep up with fickle young Hollywood. He probably should, since shooting famous people is his _job,_ but the week-to-week who’s who changes so rapidly, and Castiel has little patience for all that. Besides, he doesn’t need to know who these people are to take amazing photos, and his portfolio agrees.

Out of nowhere, there’s a splash from behind him preceded by an undignified yelp. Castiel whirls around to see Sam Winchester, a popular talent agent he’s dealt with on more than one occasion, laughing loudly and looking down over the side of the pool. Following his gaze, Castiel feels his breath catch in his throat and his heart skip a beat. Bursting through the surface of the water in the shallow end of the pool is the most beautiful man Castiel has ever seen. 

The world slows around him as he stops to watch, enthralled. Water sluices off the man’s tanned and muscular body as he lifts his arms to drag hands through his soaked hair, leaving it spiked and wild in the wake of his fingers. He shakes his head like a dog and laughs, eyes crinkling just _slightly_ at the corners in a way that Castiel knows most photographers would photoshop out, though he wouldn’t dare. This man is _perfection_ the way he is, freckle-dusted and pink-lipped and gorgeous. And then he blinks, long lashes dark against his cheeks and Castiel almost steps into the pool, caught up in admiring how those emerald green eyes sparkle in the light. 

Before he can think too hard about why, he’s got his camera raised and he’s snapping pictures. He captures the way the man appears genuinely happy and free, roaring with laughter as he reaches over the edge of the pool to try and catch the bottom of Sam’s suit pants, presumably to yank him in. Some of the pictures that result from that set are the best Castiel’s ever taken of another person. It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise when the rest of the world thought so too. 

“Just watching him made me feel happy, though I suppose a lot of people felt that way about Dean,” Castiel tells Garth quietly, finally opening his eyes to see Garth focused somewhere over his shoulder, instead of on him. Abruptly embarrassed he’d spilled that whole memory without even checking on who was listening, Castiel turns around and just hopes it isn’t Meg, his personal assistant. He’ll never live that down. 

Except, it’s not Meg, it’s so much worse. _Dean_ is standing there, a confused look on his face that has to be the most human expression Castiel’s seen him make in ages. “What?” Castiel snaps, but it comes out weak and tired and not snappy at all. “You know, I realize you’re used to doing whatever you want with no regard for others’ feelings, but in polite company, it’s still considered rude to listen in on conversations you haven’t been invited to join.” 

Just like that, whatever ambivalence Dean is feeling melts away and the cocky mask returns. _Predictable._ With a pang of regret, Castiel can almost see the doors slamming shut over his eyes, but there’s nothing he can do about that now. Before he can say anything else, Sam wanders up, hands in his suit pockets and looking like he’d rather be just about anywhere else. _Shame,_ Castiel thinks, reflecting back on a time when he and Sam were the best of friends. Naturally, being Dean’s brother, there hadn’t been a contest when it came time to choose sides, but of all the things Castiel lost when Dean left, he misses Sam the most. 

“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets him, smiling a little awkwardly before accepting the beer Dean hands over to him. “Are you seriously having another, Dean? We should probably try and stay clear-headed until we bang out some of these details, you know, so we can get going in the morning.” 

“Don’t worry about me, Sammy,” Dean replies, not taking his eyes off of Castiel. He steps closer, into Castiel’s space, _so_ close in fact, that their chests are brushing. 

“Uh...” Castiel finds himself stuttering and wordless at Dean’s proximity, but unable to back away with the bar positioned directly behind him. Dean’s head tilts to the side, leaning in slightly like he’s going for a kiss, and Castiel finds himself frozen in place, pulled in every direction by his warring emotions. In the split-second he has to make a decision, he cracks, letting his eyes drift shut in anticipation for Dean’s contact.

But Dean swerves to the side at the last second, reaching around Castiel to grab the bottle of whiskey and a fresh glass. Clearly pleased with himself, Dean stays inches from him as he pours the drink, batting his eyelashes and smirking at Castiel’s flustered, frustrated state. “Just taking what’s mine,” Dean announces sweetly before turning on his heel and retreating to the porch. 

Castiel fumes silently, darting a death glare at Sam who shrugs apologetically. 

“I dunno what to say, Cas,” Sam tells him, though it’s clear from his tone that he’s not overly pleased with Dean either. “Isn’t this pretty much what you expected? Anyway, Meg is outside, she and I have a basic list of shots put together, if you could just…” 

Sam’s voice in his ear trails off as Castiel zones out, barely half-listening as he watches Dean lean over the porch railing and sip his drink. The guy’s turned into a real asshole, no doubt, but something about the curve of his back, the set of his shoulders… all of it is pinging Castiel’s radar as _off_. The problem with that theory is, Dean’s little demonstration has proven exactly one thing beyond all shadow of a doubt. Castiel is weak when it comes to his nearly-ex-husband, and he sees what he wants to see. He was wrong to read into Dean’s behavior then and he’s wrong now. 

He just has to get over it. 

If only he knew how. 

When they finally buckle down and talk shop, Meg and Sam make the joint decision to shoot the serial in chronological order, the same as it had been done the first time. Some of it _has_ to go in order, anyway, since there’s a second location and they’ll all have to pick up and move halfway through. At least the setup is easy, since they have a template to work off of in the original shots. Garth stresses that the final pictures don’t have to be _identical,_ per se, just reminiscent and nostalgic and most of all, brimming with Dean and Castiel’s affection for each other. In related news, Castiel is reminded of what a horrible, doomed idea this really is. 

As if the entire day and night aren’t already stressful and difficult enough, the worst is still to come after Castiel finally excuses himself and retires to his room. Dean had disappeared about an hour prior, apparently deciding he was above all of the technical talk and negotiations, leaving Sam to be his proxy in absentia. Now, Castiel hears the roar of Dean’s classic Impala pulling up the drive from his place out on the guest room balcony. 

The Chevy’s engine purrs as it comes to a stop at the end of the gravel strip just to the side of the house, right below where Castiel is currently standing. The back of the house is almost completely dark now, the porch lights extinguished when everyone packed it in for the night. Only the moon reflecting off of the water and the pale, muted glow of solar lights illuminating a path down to the beach keep it from being pitch black. 

Unfortunately, it isn’t dark enough to hide the silhouettes of the two figures who stumble giggling down the hill from the driveway to the backyard. Castiel loses sight of them momentarily as they pass beneath the giant porch, but soon enough they re-emerge down by the pool. A playful looking scuffle ensues, followed by a silly, muffled scream from a woman and an amused “ _Shhhh!”_ from Dean. Castiel watches dully as they trip over each other, tangled up so tightly they’re one black shadow instead of two as they make their way towards the beach. It’s too dark to really see details, but it’s not hard to guess what’s going on. Even still, Castiel waits until the sound of the waves drowns out their frisky noises and their shadows are nothing but two small, dark spots out in the sea to turn away. 

He closes the sliding door behind him and wonders if it’s too much to hope that Dean gets eaten by a shark. 

Castiel’s sleep is fitful and he gives up on it completely long before the sun has fully risen in the sky. Cup of coffee in hand, he plants himself in an Adirondack chair on the porch and waits for it to come up the rest of the way. He’s not nervous, exactly, for what’s to come. Mostly he’s just resigned at this point, though Castiel certainly can’t say he’s _excited_ to flirt with Dean on camera. In fact, he’s not overly keen to even be around him at all after witnessing what happened on the beach the night before. It’s not as if Castiel didn’t _know_ Dean was seeing other people, of course, he did. Dean’s always barely attempted to hide it, even back before they started sleeping in separate beds and then separate houses completely. 

It’s just that, it’s one thing to _know_ and quite another to _see_ the truth with his own eyes _._ It hurts more than he thought it would. 

Feeling his mood turn sour and unwilling to throw in the towel on this entire day just yet, Castiel stands and shakes his limbs out. Finishing off the cup of coffee in his hand, he tugs off his t-shirt and steps out of the baggy lounge pants he’d slept in. He hesitates briefly, standing there in his boxers and wondering if it’s perhaps not the most appropriate thing considering all the current houseguests and soon-to-arrive contract employees. He _could_ go back upstairs and get a real swimsuit, but honestly, Castiel can’t quite bring himself to care. This is _his_ house, anyway, just as much as it is Dean’s, at least for a little while longer. 

_Fuck anyone who has a problem with it,_ Castiel thinks, picturing one brown-haired bimbo in particular when he does. 

Leaving his outer clothes puddled on the deck chair, Castiel jogs down the fourteen or so porch steps to the pavement below. Begrudgingly, he has to admit that he misses this view, that the job Dean’s done on keeping up the backyard and highlighting the panorama of the Pacific is nothing to sneeze at. The rectangle-shaped pool sits smack in the center with an attached inground hot tub at the end closest to the house. It’s surrounded by fancy, light grey pavers that almost resemble marble ten or so feet in every direction. To the right of the pool, there’s an oversized pergola with breezy canopies and plush seating surrounding a fire pit in the middle. To the left, there’s a line of lounge chairs and umbrellas. Underneath the deck behind Castiel is a wide wet bar, a full-sized refrigerator, and a grill. The whole area is meant for entertaining, and Castiel misses the times when he was a part of that.

As far as his swim goes, it’s a tough choice between the pool and the ocean. Castiel has a pool in the Hills, so perhaps the decision should make itself, but the fact remains that it doesn’t. However illogical, Castiel can’t seem to contemplate getting into the ocean without _also_ dwelling on what Dean was doing out there last night. Unable to shake the feeling that he’d be dirtying himself somehow by swimming in the waves, Castiel resigns himself to the pool and dives in. 

The water is cool and refreshing, demanding and receiving his focused attention exactly the way Castiel knew it would. He powers through lap after lap, only stopping to flip and push off from one wall just to race again towards the other. The muscles in his arms and legs stretch and burn pleasantly as the sound of his own breathing and the gentle swish of his body through the water are all he hears. He’s not sure how long he stays out there, but by the time his mind feels zen and his body screams for a break, the sun is fully up in the sky. Castiel hangs out by the side of the pool for a moment, catching his breath and getting his bearings, the sun already hot on his back and the pavers blissfully warm beneath his damp arms. 

Somewhere above him, Castiel can hear the murmur of voices, enough that he grudgingly decides he needs to get a move on and get himself ready. Dean is probably kicked back in his make-up artist’s chair right now with a mud mask and someone smoothing down his bitten nails, ready to be transformed into model perfection and put Castiel to shame. Since they’re trying to make it appear as if Castiel was never meant to be in the pictures at all, he won’t be made up for this, not really. Well, save for perhaps some deceptively simple-looking sex hair, that is. Rowena does _extraordinary_ sex hair, and of course, Dean got her in the divorce so this might be his last chance to take advantage. 

_That’s sort of unfair,_ Castiel supposes as he lifts himself out of the water by bracing his hands against the pavers and hauling himself up. _Technically, Dean only got Rowena because she’s dating Charlie, and Charlie and Dean’s friendship pre-dates even me. Not that Charlie even wanted to choose._ Castiel shakes his head, spraying water droplets that rain down on the concrete in all directions. He stretches and pulls each arm to the side before bending over and sticking his head between his calves, arms wrapped around them to keep himself there and prolong the stretch. Satisfied, he straightens up, lamenting only his lack of a towel as he glances up towards the porch.

Dean is looking back. No, scratch that, _gaping_ back, his mouth dropped open slightly and his eyes glazed. He’s soft and still sleep-ruffled, his hair fluffy in its product-less state, and he looks almost _normal_ in a ratty, faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt, barefoot and in basketball shorts. Said eyes widen comically when Dean catches Castiel’s gaze and he visibly panics, turning immediately on his heel to disappear away from the railing and Castiel’s sight. _Well, that’s interesting,_ Castiel muses, but he chalks it up to Dean being the unapologetic horndog he’s always been and Castiel’s ass having been in the air. While it’s definitely a surprise that Dean can shelve his extreme resentment of Castiel for long enough to perv on him, it doesn’t change anything. 

Lost in thought, Castiel scales the steps and collects his clothing from the chair, wandering inside to find the whole crew gathered around the wet bar off to the side of the living room. There’s a giant platter of pastries and several boxes of coffee replacing the bottles from the night before and everyone’s mouths are full. Dean, unsurprisingly, is nowhere in sight. Meg raises her eyebrows when she sees him, inclining her head in the direction of the closed doors of Dean’s office-turned-beauty studio. 

“Jeez, Clarence. You two haven’t even interacted today and you still managed to piss him off. Though, can’t say I understand his complaints,” she finishes with a smirk and a once-over of Castiel’s mostly-naked body. 

“You know as well as I do that Dean Winchester is, at best, inscrutable,” Castiel replies, holding his clothes in front of his crotch as he moves through the living space towards the foyer and the stairs. 

“And at worst?” Meg calls cheekily after him, because being antagonistic is a major facet of her personality.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Castiel replies bluntly over his shoulder.

Thanks to Dean bogarting the prep team, Castiel barely gets five minutes with Rowena to fix his hair. Because obviously, Dean doesn’t give a single shit what Castiel looks like, so long as _he’s_ buffed and powdered and whatever else his glam squad does to him to perfection. Ridiculous, since he’s going directly into the pool for the first series of shots. _Whatever._

Castiel takes that time (the whole two hours Dean stays holed up in his study) to select and prep his equipment as well as talk to Balthazar, who’s there specifically to be his second. Balthazar wasn’t part of the team back when the original photos were taken, but the whole point of this is for Castiel to be _in_ a bunch of pictures this time without actually looking like that’s what they’re trying to achieve. Point being, a second is a necessity. Honestly, Castiel’s not entirely sure why they’re even bothering with the pretense that any pictures Castiel takes himself will be in the running for the final cut. Dean’s hardly an inspiration to him these days and it’s going to be hard enough for Castiel to fake interest in being near him, never mind trying to get usable shots at the same time. 

So really, all said and done, that would make Balthazar the _main_ photographer, and him the second in everything but name. Castiel’s not salty about it, just glad it’s someone he knows, trusts, and calls a friend. Most people here (besides Meg) are going to be looking out for Dean—at least Castiel has Bal on his side. Not to mention, Dean hates him, has always harbored an unfair grudge based on the knowledge that Castiel used to hook up with him way back before he and Dean met. Not that Castiel would ever lean into that fact to flirt with Bal and annoy the piss out of Dean, that would just be immature. If he were doing it intentionally, anyway.

Dean finally exits his makeshift dressing room while Castiel is upstairs changing his clothes on Meg and Sam’s orders. The look they chose for him is frustratingly juvenile because of course, it is, it’s what he was wearing on a daily basis over a decade ago. Except, back then, he wasn’t nearly as buff, didn’t fill out a t-shirt the way he does today. Which makes their choice of a plain white tee and ripped, low-slung light blue jeans seem like a painfully cheap trick to put his body on display. 

Sam insists that they’re simply trying to create a visual link to the originals, explaining that the more details the pictures have in common, the less likely people will be to focus on the differences in Dean and Cas’ demeanors. Personally, Castiel thinks that’s ridiculous wishful thinking, that if anything, recreating those details will only serve to do the opposite. As he checks the way his nipples jut out against the tight fabric, the feeling that he’s being exploited only solidifies. 

Still, there are sure to be many challenges ahead and _clothing_ is a battle Castiel’s not all that interested in fighting. At least the jeans look alright, though they’re a bit long for his taste, especially since he’s supposed to be barefoot. Castiel finds himself wishing he hadn’t kicked off his shoes to step into the pool and shoot Dean that day, maybe he wouldn’t be doomed to walk around burning the soles of his feet on hot cement now. So many regrets, so little time. With a last look and a resigned sigh directed at the mirror, he heads back downstairs and outside. 

Rowena catches him in the living room and fixes his hair, standing on her tiptoes to artfully tousle his strands with her fingers. Castiel struggles to hold back a grimace, not because of Rowena, but because he _knows_ her goal is to make it look as if Dean’s had him bent over the porch railing with his hand in Castiel’s hair. That realization coupled with the memories from last night is a whole lot for Castiel to just stand there and take, but he manages, somehow. Rowena brushes some translucent powder onto his face before patting his cheek affectionately and shooing him on outside, and Castiel goes. 

To his surprise, he finds the whole team already shooting the first scene. Dean is in the water, ducking underneath and resurfacing multiple times while Balthazar clicks away from the pool’s edge. Guess they _are_ abandoning the pretense that Castiel’s skills are even remotely needed after all. As he stands there and observes, reluctantly, Castiel has to hand it to Dean. So far he’s killing it, the pictures are going to be gorgeous. And Dean himself… well, Castiel’s not looking forward to what’s coming next, because Dean is fucking stunning, what with his shiny wet muscles and his stupid green eyes framed by water-soaked lashes. He barely looks a day over how he appeared ten years ago, except, like Castiel, he’s _more_ built, and that’s just not fucking fair.

Swiftly tiring of watching the show, Castiel mopes and shuffles off to the side, flopping down onto a lounge chair. Crossing his arms across his chest, Castiel closes his eyes and turns his face toward the sun. It’s not like he _needs_ to watch _,_ he’s seen Dean put on this kind of performance more times than he can count. 

By the time Balthazar announces that they have what they need and are ready to move on, Castiel’s mostly asleep. Vaguely, he hears Sam calling for a half-hour break, so he doesn’t so much as attempt to try and wake up. That is, until he feels stinging drops of ice-cold water land on the exposed skin of his face and neck. He bolts upright with his most fierce glare in place, thinking Dean is fucking with him. He supposes he should be less surprised to see Meg towering over his chair, her fingers in the top of a red solo cup as she flicks water in his direction. 

“Rough night, cowboy?” She smirks and nudges at his thigh with her toe as Castiel collapses back against his chair. Across the pool, he can’t help but notice Dean standing with a towel slung low at his hips, slipping as he leans provocatively over a director’s chair. Worse still, occupying that chair is Lisa Braeden, sitting and smiling, her hand brazenly tugging the towel closer. Castiel scowls and Meg follows his gaze as she plants herself on the edge of the lounge next to his legs. 

“You’re not seriously worked up about _Lisa,_ are you, cupcake?” she asks incredulously, her eyebrows lifted as if this were _such_ a crazy thing to be upset about, seeing the love of his life and his mistress together in _his_ old home. At _their_ photoshoot. “Come on, I thought you were smarter than that. He’s doing it on purpose, you know. She’s the flavor of the week, it’s just a career booster. Or, it will be, when he can talk about it.” 

“I’m well aware of who Lisa Braeden is,” Castiel replies sullenly. Of course he is, because she’s not just Dean’s flavor of the week, she’s America’s TV sweetheart, too. “But if that were true, she wouldn’t be _here_ , now. If the press got wind that she was, this entire operation would be rendered meaningless.” 

“You may have a point there, Clarence,” Meg says, absently scratching her chin as she continues openly watching Dean and Lisa flirt and kiss. “I could get her kicked off the set, unless you’ve decided you’re above petty vindictiveness.” 

“I’m so petty my first name is now Tom,” Castiel announces without a moment’s hesitation, pulling his sunglasses out from where they’re hung on his collar and slipping them on. 

Meg grins widely. “There’s my guy,” she says approvingly, standing and heading for the house, presumably to find Garth and recruit him to their side. “You know,” she continues, turning and regarding Castiel thoughtfully. “There may not be press here, but if you want my opinion, I still think this is a show, at least on Dean’s part.” 

“Everything is a show on Dean’s part these days,” Castiel retorts. “I wouldn’t venture to defend a thing he says or does as anything but a carefully constructed facade.” 

“Sure.” Meg nods. “But you used to be better at tearing all that down.” She doesn’t wait for a reply this time and that’s a relief because Castiel doesn’t have one. It’s not as if you can tear down a wall you can’t get within touching distance of.

Castiel has somehow miraculously managed to fall back asleep when he’s once again woken up by noise around him. This time, there’s total chaos when he opens his eyes. Even from all the way across the pool, Castiel can tell that Dean is incensed and he doesn’t seem to be sparing anyone his wrath, not even Sam. Garth is trying to placate him, arms out and speaking in that calm, unflustered way of his, while Sam has moved straight to yelling back in Dean’s face. Meg, for her part, is just standing off to the side, smirking and clearly pleased with herself. When Castiel glances around, he sees the crew back in position and Balthazar tiredly rubbing his eyes, but Lisa is nowhere in sight. 

Dean’s changed since Castiel fell asleep, slipped out of his swimwear and into the denim shorts with no shirt that he was meant to wear for the next scene. Whatever’s going on, Castiel’s not sorry in the least for the delay. It’s that much longer until he’ll be expected to get close to Dean, to be in his space, pretending to share the same affection, camaraderie, and love they always have, all the while knowing Dean wishes he was _anywhere_ else on the planet. 

Preoccupied with daydreaming about all the things that are coming, Castiel fails to realize that the voices have changed direction and pitch. He also fails to notice that Dean is storming towards him until he’s only steps away with fury in his eyes. There was a time that look would have lit a fire in Castiel’s belly, knowing Dean was seeking him out to blow off steam in the best way, but today it sucks the air from his lungs. 

“Get up,” Dean demands. From behind him, Garth and Sam are calling out, clearly worried but not enough to get any closer. Meg’s the only one who has no such qualms, shoving her way in between them to follow Dean’s path down the side of the pool.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks carefully, still not standing up.

Dean huffs a sigh and bends down to grab Castiel’s bicep, hauling him to his feet not unkindly but not gently, either. “You fucking _know_ what’s going on. What’s your goddamn problem with Lisa, huh?” 

Forcing his face to remain neutral, Castiel folds his arms across his chest protectively and tips his chin up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Who is Lisa?” 

It’s the wrong move. Whatever tipping point Dean was teetering on, Castiel’s feigned innocence sends him tumbling over the edge. “Fuck you,” he snarls, surging forward to shove Castiel as hard as he can, sending him shocked and flailing wildly over the edge of the pool. He goes down with a not insignificant splash and contemplates staying under the water for the rest of his life. _At least it’s quiet down here_ , he thinks _. And warm_. 

After a few moments of embarrassed floating at the bottom of the shallow end of the pool, Castiel reluctantly surfaces, gasping and sputtering and out of sorts. Everyone is still yelling and it seems like the volume has been raised significantly but Dean looks wholly unrepentant. The only particular word he can make out is a furious, “ _Fine!”_ that sounds more or less like Dean’s voice, but Castiel’s not exactly paying attention. He’s busy squeezing out his hair and shaking the water from various orifices. Castiel saves his eyes for last, rubbing them for longer than is probably necessary to avoid looking anyone in the eyes. He’s suddenly glad that he isn’t wearing makeup.

That turns out to be his biggest mistake yet, since when he finally drops his hands and opens them up, Dean is stalking towards him in the water. The angry look on his face has melted away into something _determined,_ focused. When he doesn’t stop or slow down as he nears, Castiel finds himself shrinking back slightly, afraid that Dean is going to hit him. His back hits the side of the pool and he looks around wildly for anyone to help or at least reassure him that they won’t let Dean try and kick his ass, but they’re all just standing there, _staring_ with strange looks on their faces. 

And then Castiel doesn’t know what they’re doing, because Dean’s sloshing inside his personal space, crowding him up against the wall of the pool and taking his face in both hands. The gesture is so familiar, so easy to fall into because _Dean_ is leading him just like he used to, that Castiel forgets for one shining moment that they hate each other. As Dean’s warm palm caresses the side of his face, catching a little on his barely-there stubble, Castiel’s eyes close and his mouth parts easily in anticipation of what should come next.

There’s no trick this time, Dean kisses him like a whirlwind, like he’s starving for it. His tongue slides into Castiel’s mouth against his own and it’s so surprising that Castiel can’t help his body’s reaction. He melts into Dean, clutches at his shoulders since he has no shirt to hold onto and kisses back, rough and wanting, more desperate than his conscious mind would ever allow. It all feels so _right,_ Dean’s mouth hot and wet and soft where it covers his own, his body hard and perfect against Castiel’s own chest. 

It’s surreal, like they’ve stepped into a time warp. This Dean feels just the way he used to feel, acts just the way he used to be. Likewise, they’re kissing just how Castiel wants to kiss Dean _every damn day_ until they’re old and gray and too frail to kiss mercilessly like this anymore without one of them breaking a hip or something. _Hip._ On instinct, Castiel reaches for Dean’s, wrapping fingers around the crest of his hip bone and pressing his tongue forward into Dean’s mouth. 

Something about that gesture must flip a switch for Dean, and the next thing Castiel knows, he’s being shoved harshly away. Except, since he’s up against the wall, he doesn’t go anywhere and Dean is forced to stagger backward to get away. Breathless and hazy even as the world and their current situation come rushing back, Castiel leans heavily on the side of the pool to get his bearings. He watches as Dean swipes the back of his hand angrily across his mouth, glaring at Castiel as he goes stumbling towards the stairs that lead out of the water. 

Looking up at their audience, Castiel’s unsurprised to see a sea of shocked faces. What _is_ surprising is that Sam isn’t one of them. Instead, Castiel observes him glancing between his face and Dean’s, his expression a mix of worry and dismay. If Castiel’s brain were all the way online, he might wonder what that was about, but as it is, he’s got enough _what the fuck_ lining his plate for the time being. 

“Did you get it?” he hears Dean ask.

“God, yes. Spectacular, really,” Balthazar replies, his interest already buried in the display on the back of his camera. 

_So much for having someone on my side,_ Castiel gripes inwardly, but he’s too overwhelmed and exhausted to call Dean out on how screwed up what he just did was, nevermind deal with Bal. And anyway, Sam’s already draping a towel over Dean’s shoulders and leading him back inside. Best to just let them go and do their weirdly close brother shit they inevitably always do. 

Castiel sighs and turns fully towards the side of the pool, folding his arms onto the pavement and dropping his head down on top of them. He can feel Meg hovering over him, knows that she wants to help, but the fact is, there is nothing she can say or do. 

“Don’t,” Castiel says shortly when she clears her throat. “Just don’t.” 


	3. Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tides begin to shift, but tides go in and out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fuckin' jazzed about the episode from tonight, so here's the new chapter a bit early. Thank Bobo, I guess?! I wrote this fic in response to the s15 DeanCas breakup and how it made me feel, and I'm now feeling very validated and good about the way it reflects canon (except more banging and gratuitous use of the word "love"). *fist pump* I hope y'all think so too.
> 
> P.S., if you recognize the song Dean sings in the bar, do us both a favor and don't embarrass either of us by admitting it 😂

Wisely, Garth calls production off for the day and sends everyone home to recover and regroup. Not that anyone besides Castiel was violated and humiliated and actually in _need_ of that sort of break, but they’re all kind enough not to rub it in. With everyone from Dean’s glam squad to the lighting techs out of their hair, only Sam, Meg, and Garth remain as guests in the house. Sam stays holed up with Dean upstairs in his room for what feels like an overly dramatic length of time, and because Castiel is a masochist, he wonders what they’re talking about. Their voices were both barely audible as he passed the closed doors of the master suite on the way to change out of his soaking wet attire, but there was no yelling or other signs of anger. Just the low rumble of Dean’s voice closely followed by Sam’s muffled replies. 

Once in his room, Castiel forces himself to put on dry clothes and return downstairs, though all he really wants is to fall face-first into bed and stay there for the foreseeable future. His mood isn’t improved when he overhears Meg talking to Garth, who’s planted himself firmly at the bar and doesn’t seem to be keen on moving any time soon. 

“..would you feel if you were Cas?” Meg is saying as Castiel rounds the corner from the stairs. Knowing it’s wrong but justifying his actions because, well, this _is_ his house, at least more than it’s theirs, Castiel presses up against the wall and listens in. “...rubbing it in his face and then _that?_ In front of everyone, when he won’t…” The end of Meg’s sentence is cut off, drowned out by the sounds of the sink running, and that annoys Castiel more than it should. _Wouldn’t what? Dean wouldn’t what?_

“...want to be happy, then that’s his choice,” Garth is replying casually when the sink turns off again. Castiel’s blood boils. Do they _really_ think he just doesn’t want to be happy? That this is _easy_ for him, somehow? That he wants _any_ of this, from having to watch Dean flaunt his extramarital affairs to humiliating him for a photo op? Blinded by rage, Castiel tiptoes back up the stairs to grab his wallet from his room and then sneaks out via the back staircase. He notes as he passes that Dean’s bedroom door is open, and outside, the Impala (and Sam) are nowhere to be seen. 

_Good riddance,_ Castiel scoffs. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Dean won’t come back at all. Maybe he’ll go find Lisa and rebook his flight to Tahiti or wherever the fuck he was supposed to be this week, bailing on the project and letting Castiel off the hook. At this point, it hardly seems worth it to try and push through, all for a little positive PR. _Fans believe what you tell them, for the most part,_ he reassures himself. _And if they don’t, so be it._

Without quite realizing what he’s doing, Castiel’s stalked down the entire length of the very long driveway and is halfway down the hill towards town when he finally starts to calm down. Turning back in the direction he came from, he laments the long (uphill) walk back, chewing his lip as he glances the opposite way next, evaluating his options. From where he is, Castiel can almost see the street below that contains a few stores, a coffee joint, and a bar Dean and he used to frequent on occasion for Karaoke night. 

He wonders if Dean brings Lisa there these days, getting drunk and then stumbling home together, making out against trees and the stone walls lining people’s properties like neither of them have a care in the world. 

_Stop torturing yourself,_ Castiel scolds his wayward mind. 

Ultimately, he opts to continue down the hill and to the bar. He really could use a drink or seven and neither Meg nor Garth’s car have passed him on the road yet. This is the only way out of the neighborhood so both of them are undoubtedly still waiting at the bar in Dean’s living room. Castiel laughs to himself imagining how they probably still think he’s coming back to join them. _Serves them right,_ he thinks vindictively. 

When he makes it to the pub, Castiel slips inside quietly and makes his way over to take a seat at the very end of the curved bar where it runs into the wall. It’s relatively dark and private over there and none of the current patrons pay him any mind. Not that anyone usually does when he’s out by himself without Dean. Castiel’s soon-to-be ex-husband is the real star, after all. That has always been true, no matter how much the media might enjoy catching them both together. But here, especially, when every other house on the street has a celebrity living in it and the locals are used to shopping for groceries next to Miley Cyrus, Castiel would be shocked to be noticed at all. 

Three fingers of whiskey and two beers later, Castiel’s stopped paying any sort of attention to the Karaoke happenings on the other side of the bar. It’s the middle of the week and thus, the crowd is thin. On the outskirts of L.A. everyone is still talented, all wanna-be stars in a sea of more of the same. It’s not uncommon for Karaoke to be treated as an open mic night, with people bringing their own instruments and sounding as if they’re auditioning for prime talent management. Hell, a lot of nights, they probably are. So when a nondescript man in a low-fitting ballcap gets up on the small stage with his acoustic guitar, at first, Castiel pays him exactly zero mind. 

The voice, though… that’s a bit harder to ignore. Even in Castiel’s half-wasted state, he could never _not_ recognize Dean’s singing, overlaid with the chords his fingers are plucking from his guitar. Squinting a little and forcing his eyes to focus through alcohol-clouded vision and ambient bar lighting, Castiel recognizes the acoustic he’d given Dean almost eight years ago, for Christmas. 

There had been a time, a whole lifetime ago it feels like, when Castiel was the _only_ person Dean sang for. He’d been shy, embarrassed of his voice, sure that he couldn’t possibly be as good as Castiel claimed and endlessly afraid of the judgment of others. Even Sam hadn’t been privy to that particular talent Dean harbored, not back then. It was only through years of private, patient encouragement and hundreds of late nights with Castiel being serenaded in their bedroom that Dean had come out of his shell musically and started singing for others. Now, he has two albums, one that went RIAA Gold. Dean’s come a long way since Castiel put that guitar under their tree. 

_I drift away to a place, another kind of life_

_Take away the pain, I create my paradise_

_Everything I've held has hit the wall_

_What used to be yours, isn't yours at all_

And now he’s here, wearing a shitty disguise in a dive bar, singing a song Castiel hasn’t heard in _years._ His heart leaps into his throat when the notes hit his ears and he recognizes the tune, overcome with sadness at the idea that _this_ reflects where Dean’s at right now. For the first time in months, ironically, Castiel doesn’t feel like he’s watching Dean put on a show at all. 

_Falling apart and all that I'm asking,_

_is it a crime, am I overreacting?_

_Oh, he's under my skin._

_Just give me something to get rid of him..._

_I've got a reason now to bury this alive,_

_another little white lie_

Except as he listens, Castiel starts to get angry. When Dean first released this song, everyone had assumed it was about _him_. That was frustrating, especially because Dean refused to publicly correct the misconception, and Castiel had suffered a lot of hate from fans. The reality is, _Skin_ was written about Dean’s father, and all the ways John Winchester let his oldest son down. 

_So what you had didn't fit among the pretty things_

_Never fear, never fear,_

_I now know where you've been_

All the same, over time the song lost its intense meaning for Dean and he struggled less and less to play it without breaking down. Still, those chords were a marker for Castiel, a sign that something was up with Dean, that he was in a depressed mood whenever he’d pluck them out. He can’t imagine that’s changed in the time they’ve been separated.

_Falling apart and all that I question,_

_Is this a dream or is this my lesson?_

_Oh, he's under my skin_

_Just give me something to get rid of him..._

_I've got a reason now to bury this alive,_

_Another little white lie_

Listening to the lyrics now, Castiel can’t help but feel like things have come full circle. The song finally actually _is_ about him, and that’s just about the most unfair thing Castiel thinks he’s ever been faced with. He doesn’t deserve that slander, not that anyone in this bar would likely know to make the association. 

_I don't believe I'll be alright,_

_I don't believe I'll be OK,_

_I don't believe how you've thrown me away._

_I do believe you didn't try,_

_I do blame you for every lie—_

_When I look in your eyes, I don't see mine._

The way Dean’s voice breaks on that last line is all Castiel can take. Furious again for the umpteenth time today, he digs out his wallet and throws several bills down on the bar, enough to cover his tab and a generous tip. He’s out the door before Dean’s even finished singing, the last notes of the song drifting after him through the closing door.

_Oh, my permission to sin,_

_You might have started my reckoning_

_I've got a reason now to bury him alive—_

_another little white lie_

Outside the bar, the air is cool and crisp, close enough to the water to be tangy with salt. The street is quiet, save for the muffled noise filtering out from inside where the twang of the acoustic guitar has switched over to something electronic and Top 40. Castiel breathes deeply, trying and failing to find his inner calm before he attempts the arduous walk home. Tucked into the small alleyway next to the bar, he contemplates standing here and waiting for Dean to leave, assuming he doesn’t slip out the back. Ultimately, Castiel resolves to walk away, but no sooner has he made that decision than the door to the bar opens and out walks Dean, guitar case in hand.

Partially hidden by the side of the building, Castiel has about five seconds to figure out what he’s going to do. In the end, he goes with his gut, though the fact that Dean is out without his bodyguard makes the decision a lot easier. Dean may be an ass, but Castiel’s in no mood to get his face put through a wall. 

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” he snarls, grabbing Dean by the lapels of his flannel and whirling him around, tossing him roughly into the alley. Castiel follows Dean down, grabs him again and shoves him without mercy up against the brick wall. 

“What, are you crazy?” Dean gasps, struggling against Castiel’s hold, but he’s unrelenting.

“I gave _everything_ to you,” Castiel growls, getting right up in Dean’s face. “And this is what you give me? That _song—_ ” 

“Cas, please,” Dean wheezes, locking eyes with him from only inches away, his face full of fear and pain. Castiel drops him immediately, backing up a few steps as Dean leans against the wall, breathing heavily. 

“I would never hurt you,” Castiel says, deadpan but resolute. “You know that. I thought I knew you too, Dean. I knew you’d turned cold. But I never thought you could enjoy hurting me, twisting the knife you stabbed in my back.” As he turns on his heel to walk away, Castiel has to force himself to ignore the look of confusion blossoming over Dean’s face. 

_It doesn’t mean anything,_ he tells himself. _It doesn’t mean anything at all._

The subsequent walk home is trying, to say the least. Castiel’s somewhere between tipsy and drunk and it shows in his stride. Several times he staggers off of the walking path and into the street, each time thankful that this road isn’t much for traffic. As he walks, Castiel stews in his anger and prays that Dean stays away, leaves him alone for the rest of the evening, at least. But as they always seem to do when it comes to Dean, his prayers go unanswered.

Castiel hears the Impala before he sees it, rolling his eyes with his entire head as it coasts to a stop next to him. For a minute or two, neither of them speak, Dean just rolling along beside him as Castiel tries his best not to stumble and fall flat on his face. “What, Dean?” Castiel finally snaps, not bothering to so much as look over at Dean when he does. 

“Get in the car, Cas,” Dean replies evenly. “You and me may not be bffs right now but I ain’t gonna leave you out here like this.” With a snort, Castiel ignores the invitation and continues to walk-stumble up the hill. “C’mon, Cas,” Dean sighs. “Stop being a goddamn stubborn son of a bitch and get in the car.”

“Make me,” Castiel retorts. 

Dean is silent for a moment and then, “Fine,” he says, hitting the accelerator to get a bit ahead of Castiel and then rolling the Impala up over the curb, parking on an angle so that Castiel can’t easily walk by. Dean gets out then, full of righteous energy, and doesn’t hesitate to storm into Castiel’s space and grab him by the wrist. “It’s _dark_ out here, dude, and you’re drunk. Whatever you think about me, I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“You’re not my keeper, Dean,” Castiel scoffs, attempting to yank his wrist away and succeeding, only to have the other one caught and twisted behind his back. “Hey, fuck you,” he spits. “Let me _go,_ Dean!” 

“No,” Dean answers calmly, using the leverage of having Castiel’s arm behind his back to manhandle him towards the back of the car. Somehow he manages to get the door open, but Castiel resists being tucked inside like some kind of criminal being put under arrest. 

“I’m _not_ your responsibility,” he protests angrily. “I can do what I like.” 

“Sure,” Dean agrees, grunting as Castiel’s elbow catches him in the stomach. He loosens his grip and Castiel’s alcohol-soaked brain gleefully and prematurely decides it has won. He straightens up just in time for Dean to sweep a foot behind his knee, knocking it out and sending him tumbling towards the ground. Fortunately (for his ass, maybe not so much his dignity), Dean catches him on the way down and uses his own weight to shove them both forward into the back seat of the car. 

“No, Dean, _stop it,”_ Castiel growls, fighting and kicking his legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but Dean is relentless. After a little back and forth, he gets Castiel’s hands pinned above his head on the seat, grinning down at him from mere inches away in triumph. Castiel fumes.

“I’ll let go if you promise to stay in the car and let me drive you home,” Dean bargains, white teeth flashing in the dark. He’s so close and smells so beautifully familiar it sends Castiel into an instant flashback to earlier that afternoon in the pool. Worst of all, he’s disgusted at himself to find that he wants Dean’s mouth on him again, and badly. Thank _God_ for the alcohol in his system or he’d probably be fucking hard just thinking about it, and Dean’s thigh is currently positioned _right_ over his crotch. _Fuck,_ Castiel really thought this day couldn’t get any worse. 

“Fine,” he grits out, willing to take any opening just to get Dean off of him. True to his promise, Dean releases his wrists and slides back out the door and Castiel misses him immediately. _Come back,_ he wants to scream. _Why are we doing this? Where did we go wrong, why did you leave me? I still love you._

But he says nothing, grimacing as Dean shoves his converse-clad feet into the car and slams the door after them. Reluctantly, Castiel pulls himself up only to cram his body into the corner by the door and sulk out the window for the remainder of the ride. The second the car stops at the end of the driveway, Castiel’s out the door and shooting as fast as his unsteady body will carry him across the yard. 

“Cas,” Dean calls after him, and only the plain desperation in his voice makes Castiel react at all. He stalls in his stride, turning around slowly to raise an eyebrow at Dean as he locks his car before closing the distance between them. And while Dean doesn’t reach out to try and touch Castiel, he shoves his hands into his pockets the way he used to do back when they were dating but not out to the public yet. Castiel knows _all_ of Dean Winchester’s tells, and that’s definitely one of them. _Curious,_ he thinks, but he’s just too overwhelmed to dwell on the possible implications right that minute. 

“Well?” Castiel asks impatiently. “I’d like to go to bed. In case you weren’t aware, I’ve had a spectacularly bad day and I need to be unconscious for a while before I’m prepared to wake up and do it all over again.” 

Surprisingly, Dean looks appropriately chastised. “‘M sorry for earlier,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t have done that to you.” 

Suppressing a note of disappointment that Dean regrets their kiss, even knowing perfectly well that it was a setup from the jump, Castiel decides not to go easy on him. “Done what? Sexually assaulted me for a photo? Humiliated me in front of our crew and our friends? Or implied to an entire bar crowd that _I’m_ the one at fault for our breakup, that you’re the victim and I’m the bad guy here?” The lines on Dean’s forehead deepen, but Castiel rushes on. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. This was a mistake, I’m sure you agree. Let’s just call it off and go back to Plan A. Maybe we can hire Pamela, she’s a great spin doctor. Anything to not have to be near each other for another moment, yes?” 

Castiel looks at Dean expectantly, but once again, Dean surprises him. “No,” he says shaking his head. “No, listen, Cas, I’ve been unfair to you. I’ve been pissy and shitty and Sam really ripped me a new one earlier. He misses you, by the way, you should talk to him.” Dean shrugs his shoulders and rolls his neck as if he’s shaking something off. “Anyway, I can’t blame you for wanting out. I would too if I were you. But I swear, Cas, I’ll do better. I was just…” He gestures down the driveway. “Trying to blow off some steam tonight. I didn’t mean to piss you off more. What do you say, man? One more chance? Let me prove it to you tomorrow. If it’s awful like today, we’ll call it quits, go our separate ways tomorrow night. Deal? Truce?” 

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel looks Dean over carefully, considering his words and the sincerity in his face and tone. Gone are any signs of the cocky movie star persona Castiel’s come to expect from Dean as of late. In his place is someone Castiel _almost_ feels close to, almost remembers loving so fiercely he thought it might kill him. “On one condition,” he says slowly, and Dean nods his assent.

“Anything,” he replies. Deliberately, Castiel steps into Dean’s space, winds arms around his neck and kisses him slow and tender. It’s nothing like their kiss in the pool from earlier, that was hot and fast and confusing. This is cautious, deep, and terrifying, at least from where Castiel’s standing. Heat flares to life in his belly, like flint sparking against steel, just the barest shower of sparks, but they’re there. Dean opens to him easily, too easily, his tongue licking into Castiel’s mouth eagerly as his hands drop to Castiel’s hips. He lets himself be pushed, be pulled and presses readily into the body in front of him as if there’s nothing between them but love and lust. 

Almost regretfully, Castiel pulls away, leaving Dean with his eyelids half-closed and his mouth parted wantonly. His hands are delayed dropping back to his sides as if he can’t quite stand to let go of Castiel’s body. But when Dean tries to lean in again, Castiel pushes him away with a gentle hand to his chest.

“It doesn’t feel so good, does it?” Castiel says softly as he turns to head inside, leaving Dean standing alone and looking devasted in the middle of their front lawn. As he opens the front door, he calls over his shoulder, “But I accept your truce.” 

The next morning finds Castiel on the porch again sipping coffee, double strength and loaded with cream and sugar because, well, he deserves it. Garth is bustling around inside somewhere, having drunk so much the night before that he ended up passing out on the couch. The only upside of that was Castiel not having to answer for his sudden disappearance when he returned home, at least not to Garth. Meg, on the other hand, was asleep in _his_ bed, clearly coming down on the more aggressive side of passive-aggressive. Two can play at that game, though, and Castiel had simply shoved her over and gone to sleep as well, waking up to find her glaring at him from half a foot away.

“You can’t shake me that easily, Clarence,” she said as Castiel had blinked sleepily. “You left me with _Garth.”_ To be fair, Meg genuinely did seem more upset that Castiel had ditched her with his overly enthusiastic PR rep than the fact that he’d taken off, but her words from the night before still stung deeply enough that he wasn’t exactly feeling sorry. 

“Yes, well, maybe I just didn’t _want to be happy,”_ Castiel returned flatly, intentionally emphasizing the last words as he rolled onto his back and hugged a pillow over his face. While he couldn’t see Meg that way, he could almost hear her thinking, along with the moment where it all clicked together.

“Wait—are you… you heard that?” Meg poked him in the ribs but Castiel still didn’t acknowledge her. “Okay, well, clearly you didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Sure sounded like you were,” came Castiel’s stifled response from underneath the pillow. 

“Yea? Well, I wasn’t. I was talking about… not you,” she repeated vaguely. “And anyway, since when have you not just come to me when you’re annoyed?” Castiel reluctantly dropped the pillow and looked over at her, because she _was_ right. Meg had always been someone he trusted and felt he could confide in, and truth be told, he still isn’t sure why he ran. 

“Yesterday was a lot,” he said by way of explanation. It was the best he had to offer, and Meg seemed to accept that, flopping back onto her own pillow and staring up at the ceiling. 

“I get that,” she replied eventually. “You know, if you want out, I’ll get you out. Just say the word.” 

“And I appreciate the offer,” Castiel said sincerely. “But apparently Dean and I were able to reach an agreement of sorts last night.” 

Of course, Meg badly wanted to know the details of _how_ and _when_ and _what the fuck,_ but Castiel just wasn’t in the mood, shrugging off her questions and beating a hasty retreat to the shower while simultaneously promising that today would be better. When he came back out, Meg was gone, a text on his phone letting him know that she’d run home for clean clothes and would be back shortly.

Which brings him here, to the back porch where he’s quietly sipping coffee while watching the waves and waiting for the various members of their set crew to roll in. Truthfully, Castiel’s still a bit worried that Dean will be pissed all over again after the stunt he pulled last night on the front lawn. Not that he would have any right to be, at least Castiel didn’t do it with a goddamn audience. But nonetheless, Castiel feels his shoulders tensing and a thread of anxiety thrumming in his chest in anticipation of another possible fight and not a truce at all. 

Fortunately, his worrying seems to be for nothing when Dean wanders out through the pushed back glass wall and collapses down into the chair next to Castiel’s with a tired sigh. Blearily rubbing his eyes, Dean grunts out a greeting. “Mornin’,” he says gruffly, leaning back in his chair and sleepily blinking at the view.

“Good morning,” Castiel replies amiably. “I’d forgotten how peaceful it can be out here, early in the day.” Dean hums his agreement and Castiel can’t help but notice that he seems… different somehow. Softer, less guarded. No movie star persona anywhere to be seen. Perhaps Dean was serious about trying to get along after all. In the spirit of turning over a new leaf, Castiel holds out his coffee cup and uses it to nudge Dean’s arm. 

Upon noticing, Dean’s face does several things very quickly, changing so fast that Castiel can’t quite parse out anything in particular, except that his expression settles on grateful. Watching as he takes a long sip, Castiel smiles when Dean’s eyes close and he hums again, pleased. “Forgot you take your coffee like an ice cream sundae,” he remarks softly.

“Gabriel’s influence hasn’t exactly worn off,” Castiel replies with a soft smile. 

“How, uh… how is Gabe?” Dean doesn’t look over when he asks, instead fingering the rim of Castiel’s mug and staring down into it somewhat awkwardly. Castiel can’t help but start a little, it’s the first question Dean’s asked him in _months,_ maybe in over a year that wasn’t absolutely necessary, never mind verging on actual interest. 

“Gabriel is Gabriel,” Castiel answers carefully, not entirely sure what they’re doing. “Sweet Heaven has edible cookie dough now,” he adds, a little more lightheartedly. “They scoop it like ice cream, it’s very popular.” 

Dean snorts before he takes another sip of coffee. “Your brother would invent something like that,” he says, but he’s smiling. 

Encouraged, Castiel shifts in his chair, pulling his leg up so that he can face Dean. “Dean, perhaps we could—” But no sooner does he get those words out than Meg and Sam come strolling out from the house, Meg with two disposable coffee cups in hand. She lifts one over Castiel’s head and slides it into his hand with an affectionate tap of her fingers on the side of his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Dean’s expression sour. 

“Sooo,” Meg starts, sauntering around their chairs to lean back against the porch railing. She lifts her hands in question. “I hear we have a truce of some sort?” 

Sam leans on the railing beside her, facing Dean and listening in eagerly. “We can’t have another day like yesterday,” he warns. “Crew is going to get fed up and NDRs or not, word will leak. I can promise you that.” 

Dean holds up a pacifying hand as he drains whatever’s left in his mug. “Not to worry,” he tells them, licking the sweetness from his lips. “Me and Cas are good, we came to an understanding. Right, Cas?” Castiel nods, but he’s busy watching Dean’s face and the walls going up behind it. “We don’t gotta like each other to get along and bang this out.” 

That stings. 

“I mean, that’s what you said before, Dean,” Sam points out.

“Yea, well.” Dean gets up from his chair and stretches before heading inside to get ready. “I guess I wasn’t trying very hard. I’m fine now,” he insists, but he doesn’t look back, doesn’t meet any of their eyes when he says it. Castiel, Meg, and Sam all exchange glances as Dean disappears into the house. Sam looks especially concerned, but he doesn’t say or do anything besides stand there and chew on his thumbnail.

“You believe that?” Meg asks skeptically and Castiel shrugs, turning his head to stare at the empty space where Dean was.

“It only matters that he believes it. I’m willing to try,” he replies eventually. “I was never not willing to try.” 

They’re set up on the beach today, starting out with Cas shooting and Dean up to his calves in the waves. Castiel thinks it’s a little silly, the way they’re pretending any of these shots he’s currently taking matter, but he’s willing to bury his face in his camera for as long as the ankle-biters behind him will allow. Dean is back in his element, a wide grin gracing his pretty face, splashing in the waves and posing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. _Must be nice,_ Castiel stews, before forcing himself to adjust that automatic negative thinking. Dean’s life isn’t _really_ any more carefree than his, and if last night taught him anything, it’s that there’s still plenty of complexity swirling behind the mask Dean wears. 

It’s only when Balthazar starts yawning pointedly next to him, swinging his camera around recklessly on his arm, that Castiel relents and shifts the day forward by putting down his own. As he starts towards the water, Bal stops him with a hand on his arm. “So what is the plan, Cas? What are you going to do? You know, so I can be ready to catch the best angles.” Bal’s face is open and sincere, but Castiel recognizes that tone and the hint of teasing laced through it.

“I don’t know,” he hisses. “I didn’t know last time, either. Everything was new, Dean and I were strangers with a spark. This whole idea is crazy, you can’t fake that sort of chemistry.” Castiel sighs and runs a hand through his hair as Dean looks on from the waves with confusion and increasing impatience. Castiel’s just glad he can’t hear them over the distance and the sound of the ocean.

“From where I stand, chemistry isn’t something you two need to worry about,” Balthazar murmurs, close to Castiel’s ear so that the rest of the crew can’t hear either. “Why don’t you just… stop thinking so hard.” 

“Stop thinking so hard,” Castiel repeats under his breath as he turns back towards Dean, stopping to roll up his jeans before wading slowly out into the surf. The sun is high overhead and the saltwater is cool on the skin of his legs, refreshing as it swirls around his ankles. Before he gets more than a step or two into the water, a female voice is calling out from behind him to stop. When he turns, he finds Rowena running up with a pot of powder and a brush, stepping in to dash it all over his face without warning. 

“You’re all sweaty,” she scolds him as he coughs. 

“I’m… sorry?” Castiel replies, unsure how exactly he’s supposed to control that, out here in the hot Southern California sun. 

“Darn right you are,” Rowena says with a nod, patting his arm as she steps back and sends him on his way. When Castiel turns, he sees Dean biting back a smirk, still perfectly coiffed and looking flawless, as usual. He’s naked except for some obscenely small black swim trunks and truly looks like a bronzed Greek God literally walking out of the sea. Castiel wonders exactly how much of a wreck he appears in comparison right now, with his sweat-soaked tee and unruly hair, and decides that he’s better off not knowing. These pictures are going to be his worst nightmare. Better to just avoid thinking about it too much. 

Still, Dean is frustrating, with his mocking smile and perfect, miraculously sweat-free face, and Balthazar _did_ say to stop thinking so hard. Following his instincts, Castiel wades through the water until he’s about a foot from Dean, reaching out a hand and letting his fingers drift lightly down the front of Dean’s sculpted, hairless chest. The smirk wavers on Dean’s face and Castiel didn’t need to be this close to see him swallow heavily. He takes his hand away and then meets Dean’s eyes for a brief moment before lunging forward and shoving Dean off of his feet. He goes down into the shallow water with a yelp, and Castiel follows him down, laughing. 

Dean surfaces with a sputter to find Castiel climbing into his lap, his smile wide and sincere and apparently, it’s contagious. As the waves swirl around them, Dean reaches up to cup the side of Castiel’s face. “I owed you that too,” Castiel says good-naturedly, his palm landing on Dean’s chest, right over his heart as Dean outright throws his head back and laughs. When he sits up again, eyes shining, Castiel hardly has a moment to worry about what they should do next when Dean wraps an arm around his waist and heaves him up and over. Castiel lets out an undignified yell when Dean finishes the move by flinging him into the more shallow water, up where the waves wash thin upon the shore. 

Soaked and sandy in places that bring a new meaning to the word _uncomfortable,_ Castiel momentarily forgets where they are and what they’re supposed to be doing as Dean takes his turn on top. Dean straddles Castiel’s waist without hesitation, grabbing his wrists and pinning them up over his head in the wet sand as he leans down to whisper in Castiel’s ear. The water rushes in and out around them, barely covering the edges of Castiel’s ears on the incoming surge, definitely not enough to mishear what Dean’s saying.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he murmurs, an oh-so-familiar note of lust and want clinging to his voice as his lips barely graze Castiel’s cheek. “You seemed to enjoy this last night.” In response, Castiel squeezes Dean’s shoulder and wraps a hand around his hip as Dean pulls back to look him in the eyes. For a moment, for _one beautiful, wonderful moment,_ it’s just _them_ again, and everything is perfect. 

And then the clicking of a shutter from far too close snaps Castiel back to reality, yanks him swiftly into the present in the rudest way possible. He pushes Dean back gently with a hand on his chest and Dean goes, though his affectionate smile stays firmly in place and Castiel doesn’t know what the fuck to make of that. 

“Dare I say we have what we need here, boys,” Balthazar announces.

“Really?” Castiel’s not displeased, he’s _not._ He’s definitely glad things went so smoothly, it’s just… It wasn’t the worst thing, being close to Dean like that again, when they weren’t at each other’s throats. 

“No one’s more surprised than I,” Balthazar replies before he wanders off, already flipping through the photos on the back of his camera. 

“Maybe me,” he hears Sam say from somewhere back on the beach, but Castiel ignores him.

“Listen, Dean,” Castiel says as they get to their feet, splashing their way out of the foamy shallow water. “Perhaps we could spend some time…” He trails off as he sees Dean’s expression change, his guard slamming back up as he stares at something over Castiel’s shoulder, no longer listening to him. Castiel turns to see Lisa striding down the beach and just like that, he’s reminded of his place in all of this. He’s nothing more than a prop for Dean and he needs to remember that before he makes things more awkward for both of them. 

“Uh, yea,” Dean says distractedly, clapping him on the shoulder as he sloshes back onto dry land. “Catch you later, buddy.” 

Despite everything he knows, Castiel feels his heart break a little bit all over again as he watches Dean walk away. How stupid he has been, thinking they might actually be getting somewhere, thinking that the old Dean was still in there, that he might actually still be reachable. 

_Foolish,_ Castiel reprimands himself internally. _Nothing has changed._ He stumbles the rest of the way out of the surf and accepts the towel Meg offers before following a safe distance behind Dean and Lisa back up the sand and towards the house. Meg slips a comforting arm across his ribs and intuitively doesn’t say anything except, “Margaritas? It’s five o’clock somewhere.” Castiel nods miserably and lets her steer him back inside, though not before he sees Sam looking at him like he’s a puppy who just got his tail lopped off. 

_Great,_ he thinks. _Now I’m pitiable. This is really going well for me._ Sulking and sad, Castiel watches Dean drape an arm around Lisa’s shoulders as they round the pool and head up the steps to the porch. This whole shoot better wrap up quickly, or Castiel’s going to be a full-blown alcoholic by week’s end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides under rock*  
> it WILL keep getting better, I promise! There's a lot to unravel and rebuild.


	4. Friends Without Benefits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one universal truth in this world, and it is that sex complicates things. Dean and Cas' relationship is no exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm so if you happened to note that the chapter count went up by 1, don't hate me, i split a chapter in my WIP doc and forgot to number it. This is definitely the final count. If it helps, adding that chapter doesn't drag out the angst any longer. Make of that what you will *waves hands and disappears into hole in the ground* 
> 
> warnings for smut ahead, bossy bottom Cas, and, you know, more distress for y'all :-P  
> no, i'm kidding! sort of. hopefully you see the glimmer of hope in this one.

Passing out at eight in the evening after drinking too much is never a good look, and Castiel can’t help but be relieved Dean isn’t around to see him do it. The house is finally empty since Sam, Garth, and Meg all retreated to their own homes for the night. Apparently, they felt secure enough after the positive shoot and Dean literally not being home that the soon-to-be ex-husbands were safe from the risk of ripping each other’s throats out without constant supervision. Castiel sleeps like a log, waking sometime in the middle of the night to a dry throat and a straining bladder. 

Despite the clock on his phone showing two AM, he catches a whiff of himself and immediately jumps into the shower. After washing off the day’s sweat, salt, sand, and the alcohol that’s bleeding from his pores, when he steps out again Castiel feels miraculously almost human. Though perhaps still slightly tipsy. 

Ditching his towel in the hamper and flicking the bathroom light off, Castiel debates at the top of the stairs whether he should head back to bed or go forage in the kitchen for something to eat. He’s reasonably sure that the last solid thing that passed through his lips was one of the bagels Meg brought for breakfast yesterday morning. Everything after that was liquids, some more potent than others. Eventually, the rumbling in his empty stomach wins out and Castiel shuffles downstairs. 

It’s strange to wander through a house that used to be his, everything familiar enough to his muscle memory that he doesn’t have to turn on a light and yet somehow so very different. Castiel makes his way through the open space of the living area with its glass walls closed up tight for the night, down a short hallway and into the oversized gourmet kitchen. Running his fingers over the marble counter that surrounds the stovetop on the island, Castiel wonders how much Dean is in here these days. 

Back when they lived together, despite his busy schedule, Dean lived to cook. At _least_ two meals a day from scratch, no matter what else he had going on. But Castiel hasn’t seen him even come near the kitchen since he’s been back here. The stovetop’s condition is telling too, spit-shine clean with no dishes in the sink or homemade leftovers in the fridge, pots and pans perfectly organized on their hooks hanging from the ceiling. It’s not how Castiel remembers this house feeling at all. 

The light from the fridge spills out into the darkened room, lit otherwise only by moonlight streaming in through the windows and a sliding glass door that leads out to the porch. Castiel stares blankly into the chilly space, eyes roaming over energy drinks, yogurt, and three packs of bacon. _At least some things never change,_ he thinks. Selecting a container of Chinese takeout and sniffing it before committing, Castiel decides it’s fresh enough for his purposes and closes the fridge. 

“Holy shit!” He yelps as he steps back and finds Dean standing on the other side of the door, staring at him. “What is _wrong_ with you?!” Dean’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he removes the takeout container from Castiel’s hand and sets it on the island, not once so much as glancing away from Castiel’s face. “Dean? Dean, what are you doing?” 

Castiel curses himself as his voice comes out far less steady than he would have preferred. He straightens up, squaring his shoulders and doing his best to look intimidating, but Dean is undeterred. Castiel glances around as Dean continues advancing on him, stepping closer each time Castiel moves back until he’s got him pinned; flush against the sink with nowhere to go. 

And then Dean leans in, brushing their lips together once, twice. It’s soft and brief, Dean pulling away slightly in between each delicious press. When Castiel doesn’t stop him from stealing a third kiss, he lingers, his lips careful but sure around Castiel’s own. And _oh,_ Castiel is such an idiot but Dean feels so damn good. The whole thing has him ready to throw all inhibitions and hesitations to the wind, just like that, consequences be damned. _Castiel wants Dean._

And then Dean has to go and moan, right as Castiel opens his mouth to let him in, and something nonspecific about that innocent little noise makes Castiel throw the brakes, hard and fast. 

“Dean, stop,” he mutters, getting his hands in between their chests and shoving Dean away. 

“Huh? What, why?” Dean persists, reaching out to grab Castiel’s hip and dipping down to try and recapture his lips. 

“ _No,_ Dean, I said no,” Castiel repeats, slipping out from between Dean and the counter, grabbing his food and a fork from the drawer and heading for the porch. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure whether he’s hoping Dean will follow or just leave him alone. 

Dean follows. Castiel ignores him, dragging a chair closer to the railing so that he can prop his feet up while digging into his food. For a few seconds, it’s quiet as Dean hovers awkwardly over him, watching Castiel eat. When it becomes clear that Castiel isn’t going to give him an inch, Dean clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “I just thought…” When he trails off, Castiel puts the box of food down on his lap and looks up at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. 

Obviously frustrated, Dean groans and scrubs both hands through his hair this time, stomping away only to return seconds later dragging a lawn chair behind him. He tosses it carelessly next to Castiel and collapses onto it, legs splayed out on either side. He raises his hands and lets them smack down against his thighs. “I, uh, had some… performance issues tonight. With Lis.” 

Castiel’s suddenly glad he stopped eating because there’s absolutely no way he wouldn’t have choked on his food if he were. Suppressing a snort and a vindictive grin, he takes a moment to gather himself before trying to reply. “I don’t recall that ever happening with us,” he says innocently, barely disguising the fact that he’s extremely pleased with himself. A sideways glance at Dean reveals him to be tomato-red, even in the pale moonlight. Castiel thinks about commenting that Dean deserves such a fate, but in light of his obvious embarrassment and apparent shame, the words feel too harsh and he swallows them. 

Mistresses aside, he and Dean _have_ been making strides in the civility department and Castiel’s not ready to give that up. It’s not exactly what he really wants from Dean, but he supposes if the choice is between open hostility and tentative friendship, he’d choose the latter in a heartbeat, every time. 

“I know you want me,” Dean says lowly, and Castiel’s head snaps to look at him, his mind automatically preparing to get defensive over being mocked. But Dean doesn’t look like he’s poking fun, in fact, he looks nervous. He’s reclined in a forced-casual way in his chair, staring down at the boards of the deck, picking absently at a fraying hole in his distressed jeans. “Sex was never exactly a problem for us,” Dean continues quietly. “An’ I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested too. In something physical, I mean. Just sex. You know, maybe that’s our problem. We never got any closure, or whatever.” 

Squinting at Dean like it’ll help him understand what the hell he’s saying, Castiel tilts his head to the side and opens his mouth, only to close it again without offering anything at all in response. Open, then closed, two more times again after that before he finds words to even _begin_ to reply to that loaded declaration. “So you… want to have sex… with me… for… closure? Am I understanding this correctly?”

“Yea, I guess,” Dean says, _far_ too nonchalant, shrugging and still refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes. “If you’re into it. If not, you know, that’s cool too.” 

Castiel puts his takeout container on the ground and reaches out, closing fingers around Dean’s wrist. It’s warm and tempting in his grasp and Castiel knows perfectly well that touching Dean has already sealed the deal for him. “Dean, look at me,” he commands, but Dean seems unable to shift his eyes from the ground. “I can’t entertain this if you’re going to be blasé about it.” 

With a sigh, Dean swings his head and blinks over at Castiel. “There, you happy?” 

Frowning and ignoring that question, Castiel releases Dean’s wrist but doesn’t pull his hand away. Clearly, this was a difficult concept for Dean to propose, and Castiel’s sure it’s a terrible idea in about a thousand different ways. Still, he can’t say that he hasn’t entertained the fantasy of (or downright wished for) one last time with Dean before this. Maybe that’s all he needs, really. 

_Closure,_ Dean had said, and the word feels hopeful swirling around Castiel’s brain. He’s certainly tried everything else. One last time to purge Dean from his system and help him move on. Hell, he hasn’t been successful on his own, so what does he really have to lose? Still…

“Are you sure that’s all this is about?” Castiel asks, because he can never not pick at a scab. He’ll unravel an entire sweater before finding a pair of scissors to cut the thread. “I know that things haven’t been easy between us, but contrary to what you seem to think, I don’t hate you. And I never wanted us to… wind up like this, hurting and fighting and so miserable we can’t even be trusted to be alone together.” 

Dean blinks owlishly at him, obviously thrown by the shift in conversation and unprepared to discuss anything deeper than whether there’s any lube in the house. He laughs awkwardly and rubs at the back of his neck. “Well, yea,” he replies. “‘Course that’s all it is. What else would it be about?” Narrowing his eyes, Castiel observes Dean carefully, watching as Dean’s eyes dart around nervously under his penetrating stare. There’s something Dean’s not sharing, Castiel knows him well enough to be sure of that, but he’s not entirely positive he wants to dig for it. It’s entirely possible that it’s something to do with Lisa, and Castiel’s empathetic but he’s not a saint. There’s no way in hell he’s going to play therapist for the man he’s maybe still in love with and his new girlfriend.

“Okay,” Castiel says finally, and Dean’s eyes widen.

“Wait, seriously? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Castiel agrees, standing and offering Dean a hand to help him to his feet. “Where should we do it?” 

Dean’s face looks like his brain maybe hasn’t caught up with his ears and his mouth sort of hangs open for a few moments as he stares down at Castiel from less than a foot away. “Uhh… my room?”

Shaking his head, Castiel leans back on the railing and crosses his arms. “That’s not a good idea for me,” he says. “Too many memories. Too hard. Less closure, more floodgates.” 

“Oh, alright,” Dean demurs weakly. “Um, your bed?” 

“I have to sleep there for several more days,” Castiel reminds him. Something flashes across Dean’s expression when he says that, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, long before Castiel has any chance of figuring it out. 

“Sure,” Dean agrees. “Couch?”

“It’s leather.”

“Here, then,” Dean suggests. “It’s nice out, the view is… um… yea. Remember that time at our engagement party?” 

Castiel does remember, all too well, and he smiles a little despite himself. He and Dean had escaped their friends and relatives, run off into the kitchen and then out onto this very balcony, the side of which had been partitioned off by the caterers for their event. People down by the pool could still have seen them, if they’d known where to look, but they’d taken their chances and the sex had been _thrilling._ Dean thrusting into him from behind, one hand covering Castiel’s mouth and muffling his moans, the other jerking him off slow and tight. _Bliss._

“I do,” he says softly, receiving an answering grin and suggestive shrug from Dean. “Alright.”

“Hang on,” Dean tells him, darting back inside the house and returning less than a minute later with a bottle of lube. 

“Did you get that from the _kitchen?”_

“Don’t judge me,” Dean says defensively, dropping the bottle onto the lawn chair. “So, uh, any rules? How do you want to do this? Boundaries? Hard limits?” Castiel quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on Dean’s strange choice of words. It’s not as if Dean doesn’t have over a decade of experience with Castiel’s body, his wants and needs. Under the scrutiny Dean coughs a little, his cheeks turning pink. “You could top, if that’s what you wanted.” 

“I don’t want to top,” Castiel replies quickly, smirking when he sees the relief on Dean’s face. “It should be… like old times.” As soon as he says the words, Castiel regrets it. It’s too much, it’s not what this was supposed to be about. Dean’s just looking to blow off some steam, get their residual attraction out of his system. Castiel braces for him to react, to change his mind and bail, but Dean just smiles and it almost seems as if he agrees. 

“Sure, Cas,” he says amiably like they’re discussing what to have for lunch. “Whatever you want.” 

Castiel’s heart breaks a little at that, though he does his best not to show it. Without question, this is a terrible idea, but there’s exactly a zero percent chance Castiel’s not going through with it. “Just… kiss me,” he says, stepping back into Dean’s space and focusing on the way it feels when Dean’s arms come around his waist. Gentle but firm, strong and warm, just the way he remembers how it felt to be held by Dean. 

He should keep some mental distance, Castiel knows that. And he tries, he really does, at least for the first couple of minutes. But Dean’s mouth on his, Dean’s hands skimming across the skin of his lower back, Dean’s arms cradling him so carefully, Castiel never stood a fucking chance. He finds himself unbelievably lost in Dean’s touches, holding his face and kissing him deep and sweet and hot, without so much as a passing thought for how much this is going to hurt later. 

Neither of them worries about being caught; it’s still the middle of the night, too early for any members of their entourage to be showing up. As for neighbors, the house is protected from prying eyes on both sides by thick groves of trees, and the beach is distant enough that even if someone was out there, it’s unlikely they could discern Dean and Cas’ identities. 

So Castiel doesn’t hesitate to let Dean strip him from his clothes, reciprocating easily, their bodies coming together as if they’ve never been apart. It’s so easy to be with Dean, despite everything they’ve been through, and Castiel lets himself go. Kissing over Dean’s neck, his collarbones, nipping at his chest, he retraces every love bite, every mark he’s ever placed on Dean’s skin, trying valiantly to recreate them all. And maybe that’s childish, hoping that whoever Dean is with next, maybe even _tomorrow_ will see and know that Dean was _his,_ but Dean never said he couldn’t. 

Meanwhile, Dean sifts hands through Castiel’s hair, tilts his head this way and that, dips down when Castiel drifts away for too long in order to recapture his mouth. Somehow Castiel ends up sitting on the porch railing, legs spread and Dean shoved in between them as he kneads Castiel’s ass cheeks and licks into his mouth so roughly it’s all Castiel can do to hold on and pray he doesn’t lose his grip and fall backward. He keeps a hand at the back of Dean’s neck, tugging for leverage to grind their hips together and make Dean moan. 

And then suddenly, Dean drops down into a crouch, leaving Castiel flailing and grabbing onto the railing for dear life. He needn’t have worried, though, since Dean immediately grounds him with his hands hot and sure on Castiel’s hips, swallowing him down all the way without so much as a tease. The unexpected wet heat of Dean’s mouth makes Castiel buck and cry out, his eyes rolling back in his head; he’d forgotten how talented Dean is with his tongue. Letting Castiel thrust lightly into his mouth, Dean looks up with wide, innocent green eyes, prompting Castiel to close his in self-defense. As he does, his hand tightens reflexively in Dean’s hair to prevent this whole thing from finishing way too soon. 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Castiel murmurs with a sigh, the hand that isn’t already on Dean’s head leaving the railing and smoothing over Dean’s shoulders, across his back. His well-toned muscles ripple as Dean flexes, struggling to hold onto Castiel and the railing _and_ stay in the crouched position he’s in with Castiel’s cock halfway down his throat. “Please, Dean,” Castiel begs breathlessly and Dean relents, pulling off with a shiver-inducing slurp and a cocky grin. 

Except, it’s not the one Castiel’s gotten so used to seeing, the one that’s part of Dean’s carefully curated PR persona. This is the _real_ Dean, amused with himself and his own ability to make Castiel come undone. It stops Castiel in his tracks, drawing an equally real smile from him in return. Hopping off the railing and pulling Dean to standing at the same time, they press together, kissing again, making small noises of satisfaction into each other’s mouths as they fumble and grab at naked skin. 

Eventually, they make it to the lounge chair where Dean dropped the lube, collapsing down onto it ungracefully in a tangle of limbs and making the chair wobble precariously, almost tipping over with both of them on it. Castiel barely notices, unable to bring himself to stop kissing Dean, to take his hands off of his body. Dean’s equally possessive, manhandling Castiel to straddle his lap while simultaneously keeping him close. 

“This is so— _mmph_ ,” Dean starts, cut off by Castiel pressing his mouth firmly over Dean’s to stop him from saying something stupid and ruining the moment. No way would he survive getting this far and letting Dean talk them out of finishing the job. _No. Way._

But Dean takes the hint, snapping open the lube and getting a couple of fingers inside Castiel without attempting to break for conversation again. Castiel’s lust-drunk, just trying to feel and enjoy everything all at once, cataloging what he can to remember later when he’s alone again. He’s so busy _thinking_ and _trying_ to stay in the moment that he makes it that much harder for himself to actually _do_ that very thing. It’s not until Dean’s slicked-up cock is nudging at his entrance and Castiel pulls back from Dean’s mouth with a soft gasp that everything slows down and the full weight of what’s happening drops onto his shoulders. 

And suddenly, it’s _so much,_ the position far too intimate, but they’re committed now. Castiel’s hand is huge on the side of Dean’s neck, the other on his shoulder, holding himself steady as he bottoms out on Dean’s hips. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, his mouth only inches away from Castiel’s chin, his eyes hazy and filled with want, locked firmly on Castiel’s own. “You feel so good,” he continues, brushing his lips lazily over whatever skin he can reach, and Castiel swallows heavily, rocking down and making them both groan. “Cas, I—” Dean tries again, but Castiel’s a coward and he kisses him quiet, tangles their tongues together until Dean seems to forget he was talking at all.

They move like that, slow and easy, kissing deeply and letting hands slide over any skin within reach, letting the tension build slowly. For his part, Castiel never wants it to end. When he finally gets close and starts rocking faster purely on need, Dean closes a fist around his cock, strokes him firm and sure, bringing Castiel off between them with practiced ease that if anything, makes it even better. When he’s carried Castiel through most of the aftershocks, he surprises him by rolling them off the side of the chair. 

As they go down, Dean cradles Castiel’s head on his forearms, presumably so he doesn’t slam it into the decking. Once they’re on the ground, though, Dean shows no mercy, pounding into Castiel and chasing his orgasm hard and fast. It’s the opposite of the slow burn they’ve been nursing up to this point, but having his prostate nailed as he’s still coming down feels fucking incredible, and Castiel tightens his arms around Dean’s shoulders to show his enthusiasm. He doesn’t hold back his noises, either, calling out right alongside Dean as he finishes, squeezing his thighs around Dean’s hips as wet heat fills his insides. 

“Holy fuck,” Castiel sighs as Dean rolls off, sprawling out on the chilly deck right beside him. Dean stays close enough that his arm is overlapping Castiel’s, fingers twitching restlessly at Castiel’s palm. It’s hard for him not to notice, to stare, to think about the fact that Dean’s skin is damp with sweat, he’s still breathing hard, and he looks as beautiful as Castiel’s ever witnessed. Seeing Dean that way, Castiel wants nothing more than to curl up into his side and stay there forever. Wants to drag him into the shower upstairs for round two, then pass out boneless on _their_ bed, sleep with their limbs entwined until they wake up naturally, and then do all of it again. 

The desire filling him is strong enough that Castiel _almost_ considers actually suggesting that very thing, though how he’d put such feelings into words, he has no idea. 

He’ll blame the hormones for that near-miss later. 

Thankfully, before he can make a fool of himself, Dean yawns and sits up. Castiel resists the urge to reach out and run a hand down his back, where his own raised and reddened scratch marks are still becoming visible, but it’s a close thing. 

“So that was… that was great, Cas,” Dean says sincerely. He looks over his shoulder to where Castiel is still laid out on the deck and cocks an eyebrow. “You feel better?” 

Castiel nods but doesn’t reply, not trusting himself to open his mouth just yet. _Come back to me,_ he wants to say. _We’re so good together. Why did you leave me?_

He’s not that pathetic, though, not by a longshot. And so he keeps quiet and watches Dean step back into his jeans and sling his shirts over his shoulder. Realizing that he might actually be the one making things awkward at this point, Castiel follows his ex’s cues and does the same. They close up the house again in silence and make their way upstairs, Castiel’s Chinese food long forgotten. Outside Dean’s bedroom, they both hesitate and Castiel’s hopes soar for a moment, only to be dashed against the rocks when Dean leans in to brush their lips together softly before pulling away.

“I’m glad we, you know, got that out of our systems.” His eyes are bright and genuine and Castiel needs to get it through his damn head that this is _all_ he gets. This, nothing more. And if he wants this, Dean’s civility and maybe even his friendship, he’s going to have to truly and completely let the rest go. 

“Yes,” he manages, his throat tight. “Me too.” 

Dean gives him a wan smile as he slips inside his bedroom and closes the double doors, leaving Castiel standing half-naked in the middle of the hallway like a fool. When he kicks off his jeans and crawls under the covers in the guest room bed, Castiel can’t help the morbid thought that blinks across his mind; the idea that it would be okay if he never woke up. 

“Rise and shine, Clarence, we got problems.” Meg’s _way_ too awake voice pierces sharply through the dream-veil, straight into the _very_ pleasant fantasy Castiel is currently enjoying in his blissful state of unconsciousness. Her interruption has the unfortunate resultant effect of replacing dream-Dean’s face and body writhing underneath his own with hers, and Castiel reacts accordingly. 

“ _Ugh,”_ he groans, flailing around in the bed and stuffing his head underneath a pillow. “Go ‘way.” Maybe he can will himself back into the dream if he tries hard enough.

“‘Fraid no can do, best buddy,” Meg replies, yanking the blankets unceremoniously off of Castiel’s body. She outright ignores his subsequent mini-tantrum and attempt to burrow directly into the mattress. 

“I was up late,” Castiel mutters into the bedding. “Why is this necessary?” 

“I know. Trust me, I don’t wanna be here any more than you want to see me right now.”

“I doubt that.”

“...But like I said, we have a problem. Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“There’s good news?”

“Sort of. I have coffee.” Resignedly, Castiel shoves his way to a sitting position and glares blearily up at Meg. Despite his current state, he can tell she’s not quite as put together as usual, like she was rushed getting ready.

“What time is it?” Shifting his glare to what he hopes is a more grateful look, Castiel accepts the to-go cup of coffee Meg holds out for him and scoots over so that she can sit down on the bed too. Closing his eyes and taking a long sip, he savors the feeling of hot, sweet liquid running down his throat. _That_ badly-phrased thought brings a few others floating to the surface, all of which Castiel immediately shoves back down and buries. 

Thankfully, he’s successful in doing so before him being next to Meg in only his underwear becomes extremely awkward. Castiel’s suddenly glad he bothered to put his boxers back on at all last night. “Mmm,” he sighs, focusing back on the drink in his hand. “This is good news.”

“Uh, sure, Clarence, but that’s not exactly what I was going to say.” Castiel raises an eyebrow at the concerned face Meg is making and waits for her to continue. “The good news is that you and Dean probably don’t need to worry about the break-up rumors anymore.” 

“Oh?” Castiel replies, wrapping both hands around his cup and wishing Meg would at least give him his comforter back. “How is that?” 

Meg hesitates for a moment before pulling out her phone and tapping away at the screen. “Probably easier to let you see for yourself.” 

“A leaked _sex tape?!”_ Castiel can hear Dean’s yell from the living room even as he’s still flying down the stairs, clad only in yesterday’s boxer-briefs. He regrets that badly thought out decision pretty quickly when he rounds the corner and sees what amounts to almost everyone he knows scattered around the room. Unsurprisingly, Dean is at the center, fuming and addressing all of them like the ringmaster of the world’s worst circus. 

“We know what happened,” Sam is saying in a pacifying tone. He’s clearly doing his best to reassure Dean, but the man in question is glaring at Sam’s outstretched “calm down” arm like he hopes he can make it spontaneously combust. “There’s no security risk. We reset the entire system and Charlie added an extra firewall. It’s impenetrable.” 

“Is that really supposed to make me feel better, Samantha? Why wasn’t it impenetrable _yesterday?”_ Dean notices Castiel hurry in then, catching his eye and averting his gaze just as quickly. “Hey, Cas,” he mumbles, his face going pink under the hand scrubbing over it. “Didja see we went viral? Lucky us, huh?” 

“Lucky isn’t the word I’d choose,” Castiel replies, his brow furrowing. 

“There was nothing wrong with your security system before this, Dean. It’s… this is my fault. I trusted the wrong person and now you and Cas are paying for it.” Sam looks over mournfully at Castiel and circumstances aside, Castiel has to bite back a smile to see the younger Winchester’s puppy dog eyes directed at him for the first time in ages. He’s missed Sam’s friendship and this might be the first genuine interaction they’ve had in months. 

“I don’t know if Brady was playing us from the start or if he’s actually a decent guy who made a really shitty decision, but regardless, I’ve already turned everything we have over to the Malibu Sheriff's Department. They said they need to sort out what exactly they’re charging him with since technically, we gave him access to the cameras, but he’s being held at the station until they do. I’m sorry, Dean. You too, Cas. You both deserve better, not just from your agent but from your brother.” 

Sam doesn’t amend his statement to exclude Castiel from being considered “family,” and it’s both disarming and heart-warming, bizarre circumstances aside. “I’m afraid I’m not exactly up to speed,” Castiel admits as Meg prods his shoulder. She’s holding out a pair of jeans which Castiel quickly steps into, squeezing her wrist in thanks for the foresight. He does catch Dean scowling openly at the little gesture and wonders what that’s about. As always though, Dean’s on to the next thing before Castiel can figure him out.

“Tell him, Sammy,” Dean instructs, but he sounds less angry, just weary. “This is your party.”

Sam fiddles with his phone guiltily. “I had Brady, my assistant, monitoring the house’s security cameras. I was worried about you two. You have a tendency to go from zero to fistfighting with no warning. So I had him set motion alerts in case anything happened.”

Realization kicks down the door in Castiel’s head. “So when Dean and I…”

“You tripped the alert for the back porch,” Sam affirms and it’s his turn to go red-cheeked. 

“I see,” Castiel says evenly.

“I still don’t understand,” Sam continues with a shake of his head. “I’ve known Brady since we were freshmen at Stanford together. He’s always had my back. And he’s seen plenty of shady shit from Dean before this, stuff he could have sold to the tabloids for a mint. Why now?” 

“Does it matter?” Dean scoffs. 

“I guess not,” Sam replies dejectedly. “I’m just wondering if involving the police was the right choice, all things considered. He’s got a lot of dirt on all of us.” 

“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, Sam,” Garth pipes up from the sofa where he’s nursing a mug of tea, one leg crossed casually over the other. “Even if he tries to roll on us, goes to the press and tries to sell gossip about Dean and Cas essentially being already divorced, no one is going to buy it. You know what they say, believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.” 

“That’s… actually kind of insightful,” Dean allows, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “And yea, I gotta side with Garth, here. Half the world has seen me balls deep in Cas on our own back porch. It sucks but it’s out there now, no taking it back. Least we can do is ride the wave, try to spin this into something we can both use.”

“That’s shockingly more mature than I thought you’d be about this, Dean,” Sam tells him and Dean snorts.

“Do I have a choice or something?”

Wisely, Sam lets that one go but Castiel rolls his eyes behind Dean’s back. “Anyway, we will have to do some damage control. And about that—” 

“Me too?” Castiel questions, already knowing and dreading the answer, his stomach sinking regardless when Sam, Meg, and Garth all nod together in the affirmative.

“So get this,” Sam continues, scrolling his phone. “I called around and _The Tonight Show_ , the one with Jimmy Fallon, had a guest drop out last minute for tomorrow’s show. Their people were chasing down the girls who play the sisters from that CW show since their premiere is this week but I was able to work out a deal. Don’t ask me how much we’re _not_ getting paid for this, just be glad I’m the miracle worker I am.” 

“Is it hard to talk with your lips attached to your own asshole like that?” Dean quips, the hint of a smile gracing his lips, and Castiel finds himself feeling relieved to see him joking. His greatest fear when he’d seen the video was that Dean would blame him, would be so furious he wouldn’t want anything to do with Castiel ever again. So far, at least, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Castiel breathes out and Dean notices, sending him a wink from across the room. _Well, that’s encouraging,_ Castiel thinks. 

Sam, for his part, seems equally relieved and doesn’t so much as shoot Dean one of his usual bitchfaces for being crude. “Jerk,” he says quietly.

“Bitch,” Dean replies on reflex, and the whole room seems to exhale, releasing a bit of the tension hanging in the air. 

“So anyway,” Sam continues, smiling down at his phone screen, “I’ve got you two on a flight to New York in four hours out of LAX. Meg and I will release a joint public statement, you’ll do some strategic photo ops around the city tonight and film the show tomorrow. If everything goes well, humiliation aside, this might actually help your images. Oh, and I’ve already spoken to _Vanity Fair._ Their people are amused, no one wants to pull your photo spread, so we’re good there, too. All told, this could have been a lot worse.” Sam looks up hopefully and Dean snorts again.

“Easy for you to say. Wasn’t your naked ass splashed across the Facespaces… Mytubes… whatever,” Dean reminds him. 

“Facebook,” Castiel corrects without thinking. “Youtube.”

“ _Now_ you understand a pop culture reference? Really?”

“Guys,” Sam interrupts. “Sarcastic banter later, pack now.” 

Dean grumbles but heads across the room and towards the stairs. He turns around when he reaches the edge of the living room. “Private jet, right?” The guilty look returns to Sam’s face. “Oh, come on, Sammy. Don’t do this to me, to Cas. If ever there was a time to hide our faces…”

“But that’s exactly why you can’t,” Garth pipes up, saving Sam from bearing the full brunt of his brother’s irritation. “You’ve gotta get out there and act unbothered. You’re supposed to be in love. People will respond to a little humility and sense of humor about it all, and they want to see you two do it together.” Dean’s jaw works and his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t argue for once. Instead, he points an accusing finger at Sam before disappearing out into the foyer without another word.

“Cas, you okay?” Meg asks, her hand on his shoulder.

All Castiel can really think to do at this point is blink at her and nod. “I suppose it’s like Dean said,” he replies. “What choice do I have? I guess… we’re going to New York.” 

“I don’t know if Dean’s figured it out yet, but we’re not coming with you,” Meg explains. “No private plane means prohibitive costs and seating availability issues. Rowena’s made calls and arranged for some friends to show up on set to make you both look pretty in the morning, but other than that, you’re on your own.” 

“No one’s afraid we might kill each other?” 

Meg smirks and shrugs. “You looked like you were getting along pretty okay last night,” she says with a grin. “I think if you can manage that, you can handle a measly little interview.” She smacks his ass playfully and Castiel winces, abruptly wishing the room were a lot less full and focused on him.

“Point,” he replies quietly, shifting on his feet.

“And you can always call us, Cas,” Sam chimes in. “If nothing else, I’ll Facetime you both tomorrow morning to go over talking points before you go on. You’ll be fine.” Something about the way Sam’s looking at him makes Castiel want to prod further, to ask what he knows that Castiel doesn’t. Unfortunately, they’re interrupted.

“CAS!” Dean bellows down from the top of the staircase. “Get up here so we can coordinate outfits. Do you still have that pink button-down you stole from me?” 

Sam raises his eyebrows in an expression that clearly says, _you better go,_ and less and less Castiel believes he’s going to make it out of this whole thing alive. Just when he thinks he’s free, somehow, Dean sucks him back in.

Even still, knowing full well he should at least set some boundaries, Castiel sighs and makes his way upstairs to where Dean is waiting. Apparently Dean thinks nothing of sharing clothes the way they used to, and Castiel’s just going to have to be okay with that. He’s starting to feel a bit like the meme with the dog drinking coffee at a table with everything around him on fire. 

_This is fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooo.... how we feeling 😂


	5. Up in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrities: they're just like us! They shop for groceries like us, do their laundry like us, hook up with exes they shouldn't like us...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Sunny's on target to finish the last piece of art by next weekend, so I'm speeding up posting because I love y'all and you've been so patient. Expect a chapter every 3 days until it's done. :-) 
> 
> warnings for semi-public sex (handjob/blowjob)!

Despite how much he travels for work, Dean’s never been a great flyer, never quite getting over his fear that the plane is just going to drop out of the sky at any second with no warning and no survivors. Unlike other people Castiel’s known with the same fear, Dean’s doesn’t worsen or peak around takeoff and landing, either. He’s always a miserable wreck from the second he sets foot onto the aircraft until he’s firmly back on solid ground again. Sometimes beyond that, if there’s anything else going on to amp his anxiety. 

Say, for example, that he’s traveling with his soon-to-be ex-husband who he has to pretend to be in love with while the entire world is literally looking on as if they’ve just seen him butt-ass naked. _For example._

In the airport, Dean keeps a death grip on Castiel’s hand as they make their way through the crowds. Dean’s bodyguard, Benny, is the only one of the team to be coming with them, but he’s hanging back and sitting in Coach for reasons Castiel’s not sure he quite understands. If they get mobbed and murdered at the airport, PR’s not going to mean a hell of a lot, but Dean steadfastly trusts Sam and doesn’t seem all that bothered. Castiel supposes he should just be happy _they_ don’t have to sit in Coach, too. The walks of shame they’re doing from the car to the plane and in reverse at LaGuardia are apparently enough to satisfy their team’s very specific ideas about post-sex tape PR. 

Which brings them to the check-in counter, Dean and Castiel handing over identification and receiving hard copies of tickets in return. Benny’s checking a bag for them and he’ll then retrieve it after Castiel and Dean are squirreled away inside the car that’s picking them up in New York. With no current responsibilities of his own, Castiel hardly pays attention as Dean speaks to the customer service rep. He clocks Benny in the line behind them, unobtrusive in his continuous, careful scanning of the crowd for any threats. 

Dean’s still wearing his hat and sunglasses so the attention they’ve attracted thus far is minimal, but he’ll have to take both off soon, at least to pass through security. And, of course, there’s no hiding his and Castiel’s identity from the woman checking them in. From the excited look on her face, she’s about to blow their cover. 

_Becky,_ as her nametag declares, manages to hold it together until the two of them are gathering their items and turning to walk away from her counter. Castiel actually thinks for a moment that she’s going to lose her nerve and they’ll be able to fly under the radar for another couple of minutes, but no such luck.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out in a rush before Dean even gets one entire step away. “I’m such a big fan,” she gushes, “of both of you. Is there any chance I could get a selfie real quick? Please, it would mean so much to me.” Castiel watches as Dean falters a little before composing himself, though by the time he turns around to face Becky his smile is genuine and he’s pulling the hat and sunglasses off without having to be asked. 

“‘Course, sweetheart,” he tells her, laughing when she squeals and leans across the divide where people are supposed to place their suitcases to be weighed. Holding out his own hand for Becky’s phone, Castiel snaps a quick couple of photos of Dean with his arms around the girl before handing it back with a stiff smile. Not that he isn’t grateful for all the fan support, he’s just not as natural at interacting with them as Dean. Castiel doesn’t think it’ll ever not feel strange to be approached in public as if he and Dean are something more than human. 

“Thank you,” Becky says breathlessly. “Um, can we do a selfie with Cas too?” 

Without missing a beat, Dean reels Castiel into his side, an arm wrapped possessively around his waist as Becky flips her camera and holds her arm out in front of them. The picture’s already taken by the time Castiel realizes he’s got his hand in the middle of Dean’s chest and he’s looking more at _him_ than the camera, but by then it’s too late to course-correct. Becky sighs happily when she sees the end result, though, so Castiel supposes it must be acceptable. 

Unfortunately, Becky wasn’t exactly quiet with her request, and two fully grown men taking selfies across the airline check-in counter isn’t exactly low-profile. So when Castiel and Dean turn around to make their way towards TSA security, it suddenly feels as if the entire airport is staring at them. 

“Go on,” Benny murmurs behind them, apparently having checked in with another agent while they were entertaining Becky. He nudges Dean forward with a hand between his shoulder blades. “I’ll be right behind you, Chief.” 

Visibly steeling himself, Dean’s chin lifts and he dons his trademark smirk as he starts towards the security lines. Despite outward appearances, though, his hand tightens around Castiel’s own, tugging him closer to his side. The action is subtle enough that it makes Castiel start, hyper-aware that it couldn’t possibly be for anything except Dean’s own comfort. One thing is for certain; once this sex tape stuff is behind them, Castiel _needs_ to sit Dean down and force him to talk. There’s clearly still something between them that neither wants to be the first to come out and discuss, but Castiel’s sanity can’t take much more of the hot and cold act from his ex. He needs to know once and for all where they stand and why, if Dean’s still harboring feelings for Castiel, why did he start fucking around on him in the first place? 

That thought sparks a flare of furious rage, but Castiel quickly stamps it out. Getting upset about the past all over again isn’t going to help him get through the present. So he adjusts his fingers in Dean’s grip and allows himself to be led on. 

Before entering the TSA checkpoint, they get stopped three different times by excited fans. Thankfully, all of them are polite and respectful and no one crosses any lines. A few selfies and a couple of autographs later and they’re on their way again, no harm, no foul. Plenty of people stare and point (and, Castiel assumes, laugh while imagining them both naked), snapping distant pictures with their iPhones, but everything goes to plan and no one oversteps the bounds of common courtesy. Sam and Garth will be pleased. 

On the other side of security, Dean and Castiel make their way to the gate, and that’s when Dean’s nerves really start to kick in. If he weren’t a celebrity, Castiel would suggest stopping at the airport bar for some internal lubrication, but they were strictly warned by Sam that this was off the menu. They’re also not allowed to hole up in the First-Class lounge, either, so Castiel’s basically forced to put Sam’s plan into action. 

“Sam’s plan” basically involves the two of them getting snuggly and affectionate in the torture devices known as airport terminal chairs. It’s awkward at first, Dean jiggling his foot nonstop while attempting to chew off the entirety of his thumbnail, Castiel not entirely sure where the fucking _line_ is between putting on a show and truly invading Dean’s personal space. Because the thing is, Dean’s anxiety _isn’t_ a show, and while Castiel suspects that’s what Sam was counting on, it’s also kind of an unfair situation to expect him to _actually_ handle. 

Vaguely, Castiel wonders what will happen when Lisa sees this PR, what she thinks of all this at all. On the one hand, it’s not exactly the best time to ask. On the other, his thus far hand-petting and back-rubbing don’t seem to be having any effect on Dean’s mood, so what could it hurt? Maybe he can shock him into distraction.

“So… Is Lisa upset about all of this?” Castiel ventures, watching Dean’s tight expression carefully for any sign that he’s accidentally pressed the red button and detonated the nuclear option. To his surprise, his words seem to do the exact opposite.

Dean _laughs._ Honest-to-God _laughs._ The tension melts right off of his face and he turns to look at Castiel with eyes crinkled and twinkling. “Yes,” he says sincerely, but oddly, with no hint of malice or anger. 

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “You don’t seem… um…” He falters and makes a face, hoping Dean will take it from there.

He does, with a nod and then a shake of his head in the negative. “I should be thanking you,” Dean says quietly. “Lisa… she’s a great girl. She deserves better than someone like me.” 

Knowing the right thing to do is to offer his condolences or at least his ear, Castiel finds himself doing neither. Hell, he’s come this far. “So you two are broken up?” 

When a huff and a shrug, Dean fiddles with the wedding ring on Castiel’s left hand, the one tucked into his own. Putting their rings back on was also Sam’s idea, though Castiel doubts he understood the emotional distress it would rain down on his head. “Not sure if ‘broken up’ is the right phrase since we were never…” Dean trails off. “Yea, we’re done. We were done before I came home last night,” he affirms, holding Castiel’s gaze for a beat too long to be casual before looking away again. And Castiel’s not sure where to go from there or what to say, but by some divine providence, he’s saved from having to figure it out by the call for pre-boarding of their flight. 

Castiel’s all too aware that people have been staring and stealing covert pictures of the two of them the entire time they’ve been sitting in the waiting area chairs. As such, he’s all too relieved to be finally allowed into the temporary sanctuary of First Class. There are only twelve seats in the forwardmost cabin, and no one in them seems remotely interested in Dean and Castiel’s presence. In fact, the woman seated directly across the aisle from them is already asleep and her seatmate at the window is engrossed in her laptop. 

_Perfect,_ Castiel thinks. While he can’t let his guard down completely, at least he won’t have to be on hyper-alert for his every quirk and facial expression the entire flight. 

Which is good, because Castiel’s not sure how much longer he could have successfully hidden his annoyance with Dean. He’s not the kind of anxious flyer that needs to be bolted to his chair and sat on for fear that he’ll try to disembark when no one’s looking, he’s just _obnoxious._ Jiggling his legs, rustling around in his chair, drumming his fingers absently on the armrest between them. Even as the plane is taxiing, Dean’s popping his head up like a gopher, looking around and “ _humph”_ ing at whatever he sees, flicking the metal buckle of the seatbelt settled around his hips until Castiel’s genuinely considering throwing him out the emergency exit. 

Finally, at his wit's end and unable to bear the idea of having to sit through another five hours of Dean’s antics, Castiel pulls out the big guns. He pops the armrest between them up and throws the complementary blanket across Dean’s lap, snuggling down into his side as if he intends to take a nap with his head on Dean’s chest. Instead, his actions concealed by the blanket, he pops the button on Dean’s jeans and sticks his hand down the front of his pants.

The effect is instantaneous. Dean goes perfectly still while his heartbeat picks up the pace in Castiel’s ear. He gives Dean a moment to adjust, leaving his hand flat on the warm skin of Dean’s lower abdomen, just in case Dean’s suddenly decided he’s morally opposed to casual sex with Castiel after all. While last night was clearly supposed to be a one-off, it also sort of seems like current circumstances leave some room for negotiation in that department. 

Underneath Castiel, Dean relaxes, hitting the button to tip his seat back under the guise of making them both more comfortable. The only other sign that he’s even picking up what Castiel is putting down is the subtle spreading of his legs as he settles into the chair and wraps an arm around Castiel’s back. His hand comes to rest on the strip of skin above Castiel’s belt, fingers nudging just underneath his waistband. It feels oddly affectionate for their current status, but Castiel writes it off as likely related to the semi-awkward physical position they’re in. 

Whatever happens from here, Castiel’s just glad to see Dean’s finally stopped nearly jittering off the seat. As a reward, he wraps fingers around his swiftly filling out cock and strokes. Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he shifts, tipping just slightly onto his left hip to face Castiel a little more fully and tent the blanket to provide plausible deniability. Castiel’s not sure he quite thought that move through, since it puts them almost face to face, if he looks up. He strokes Dean smooth and easy, his face buried in the front of Dean’s shirt, and tries admirably hard to avoid doing exactly that. 

The plane climbs higher into the air and Castiel moves his hand just a little bit faster, Dean’s face tipping down to nose in his hair, at his ear. His lips graze across Castiel’s temple and suddenly he’s having regrets about getting into this at all. It’s so much harder to be close to Dean like this when he _knows_ it’s just sex, that it means nothing to Dean. But he’s already in it, and despite whatever emotional difficulties this is causing, it _is_ serving the purpose Castiel intended. He just hopes they look as discreet as he thinks they do; two very much in love yet exhausted husbands snuggling together in an attempt to take a nap. 

When Dean comes he curls inward, his breath hot on Castiel’s neck as his body stiffens before ultimately relaxing again, more boneless than before and weighty on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel cups his free hand and manages to catch the majority of the wetness that spills out, grabbing an airline napkin from the seatback in front of them and cleaning off his hand while Dean continues panting into his skin. He lets out a strangled little sigh as Castiel tucks him back in his pants, but he doesn’t pull away. When several minutes pass and his breathing softens and evens out, Castiel realizes with some horror that he’s fallen asleep. On his shoulder. And now he’s stuck. 

The next three and a half hours are like something straight out of Castiel’s personal hell. Or maybe his Heaven, he’s honestly not sure at this point. Sex is one thing, but he hasn’t had Dean this sweet and pliant and curled around him so lovingly in _years._ It’s both rapturous and horrifically painful all at once. 

After the initial regret and discomfort that came along with realizing the situation he’d gotten himself into, Castiel had little choice but to accept and make the most of it. So he’d leaned back, wiggled his arm until Dean shuffled over in his sleep enough that Castiel could at least shift it around him, instead of leaving it pinned underneath and in danger of losing circulation. Of course, that move _also_ made Dean snuffle closer to him, because of course it did. Regardless, once he was sure he wouldn’t lose an arm over this whole thing, Castiel had shaken his pair of complimentary earbuds out of their packet using only one hand and queued up a movie on the screen attached to the seat in front of him. When the dining cart came around, he ate his chicken parmesan and steamed vegetables one-handed, too. All the while, Dean slept on. 

It’s not until long past dessert, the rum and Coke Castiel allows himself exactly one of, and the hot towels the flight attended brings around coming and going, that Dean finally wakes up. Only as the pilot’s voice comes over the speakers to announce they’ve started their initial descent into the New York area does Dean snort ungracefully awake, startling upright and wiping drool from his cheek defensively. Castiel just glances down and sighs when he notices the wet spot on his shoulder. 

Really, that should be at the bottom of his list of concerns at the moment. He waits for the inevitable awkwardness to ensue, but Dean just grins sheepishly and stretches, tossing away his seatbelt and bolting for the bathroom before Castiel can say anything at all.

 _Which is rude,_ Castiel grumbles to himself, considering he’s had to pee since they were somewhere over Kansas. Standing up and making his way forward, he waits patiently for Dean to exit and manages not to catch the wrath of any flight attendants intent on telling him to return to his seat. Now that he’s up and moving, Castiel _really_ needs to go, and he’s not sure he’d be able to make it all the way to his seat and back without something extremely embarrassing occurring. 

What he’s _not_ prepared to happen is for Dean to crack open the door, catch sight of him, and promptly reel him into the too-small-for-one-grown-man-never-mind-two bathroom without hesitation. “ _Dean,”_ Castiel hisses, his bladder protesting the sudden movement. “What are you _doing?”_

Dean just grins back playfully and goes for Castiel’s belt buckle, poking his stomach lightly in the process which makes Castiel grimace and bat his hands away. “Jesus Christ, Dean, get the fuck out or I swear I’m going to piss on you.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean grabs Castiel’s biceps and shuffles them both around, sidestepping each other until Castiel’s the one nearer to the toilet. “Just go,” Dean urges, motioning towards the bowl, but Castiel stubbornly folds his arms and glares. “Fine,” Dean sighs, leaning against the door and dramatically slapping a hand over his eyes. 

If this were _any_ other time, and if Castiel had been doing anything besides trying not to wet his pants for the past forty-five minutes trapped under Sleeping Beauty, he wouldn’t have entertained Dean’s sudden need to be an absolute child. As it is, he’s pretty darn close to bursting, and negotiating with Dean isn’t a luxury he has time for at the moment. He takes care of business and flushes by kicking the button with his foot, looking up to find Dean distinctly _not_ closing his eyes and smirking. “You’re an ass,” Castiel mutters as he tries to stuff himself back in his pants. 

“Sometimes,” Dean replies, knocking Castiel’s hands away from his own crotch and sinking to his knees in the tiny stall. 

“No, Dean, _not here,”_ Castiel says frantically, doing his best to push Dean away while Dean does _his_ best to ignore him. 

“I owe you,” he murmurs a second before taking Castiel fully in his mouth, which naturally makes _Castiel_ go limp against the wall, eyes rolling back in his head. 

Dean doesn’t draw things out. In fact, he pulls out all the stops; every trick Castiel’s ever known him to use and a few more, all of which have him twisting fingers in Dean’s hair and writhing helplessly beneath him in mere minutes. Gasping and biting at his own lip to silence the moans he wants _badly_ to scream from the rooftops, he comes down Dean’s throat hard, shaking and sweating as Dean swallows and works him through it. “Dean, _God,”_ Castiel chokes out, as quietly as he can manage as Dean sits back with a shit-eating grin on his face. He gets to his feet, wincing as his knees crack in protest, turning towards the sink and using one of the complimentary cups to rinse his mouth. 

“That was fun,” he says with a wink, after spitting and wiping his face. “Now we’re even.” Before Castiel can reply, Dean’s out the door, letting it slide closed behind him. Castiel darts forward to slip the lock, just in case anyone is waiting on the other side, before slumping back against the wall again. 

He is so _fucked._

Between the airport gate and the door to their hotel suite, Dean ignores three calls from Sam. While Castiel does find that odd since Dean rarely ignores anything when it comes to Sam, they aren’t exactly kicked back doing nothing, so he doesn’t think too much of it. It’s only when the door is shut safely behind them and Dean answers Sam’s fourth call with a _far_ too cheerful, “City morgue, you kill it, we chill it,” that Castiel starts to get vaguely suspicious at exactly how unbothered by all of this Dean seems to be. Unfortunately, Sam’s news doesn’t do much to change that. 

After a minute of fuss, Dean puts Sam on speaker and drops the phone onto the small dining table off to the side of the sitting room. “So have either of you checked social media?” Sam asks. An awkward silence hangs in the room as Dean and Castiel glance at each other and shrug. Neither of them has ever been particularly proficient at managing those accounts, Castiel mostly leaves his to Meg and at least when they were together, Dean didn’t even know his own passwords. Sam sighs and it echoes over the line. “You’re both hopeless,” he mutters. “I’m sending screenshots. To Castiel,” Sam clarifies, “Since I don’t trust you to open a text without accidentally hanging up on me.” 

“Dude,” Dean protests, clearly offended. “We might not be as glued to our screens as you are, but we’re not _Boomers.”_

Stifling a smile, Castiel pulls out his phone and opens Sam’s text message thread. The last message before today is dated from over a year ago, and Castiel recognizes it to be from the night Dean had stormed out of their house in the Hills, sending Sam in his stead to collect some personal items.

 _I wish you’d just talk to him,_ Sam’s message had said, but Castiel outright refused, replying that talking wasn’t necessary. He’d seen Dean with Amara, observed with his own two eyes the way she’d been all over him, her tongue most of the way down Dean’s throat when Castiel walked into the room. 

_It’s not what it looks like,_ is the last message Sam had sent. At the time, angry and hurt, Castiel had scoffed and stopped replying to him at all. Now, Garth’s phrase from earlier comes back to haunt him. _Trust none of what you hear and half of what you see._

A series of screenshots populate the thread and distract Castiel from his train of thought. They’re from various social media outlets; Twitter, Instagram, Facebook. The assortment of images differ slightly, but they’re all from a particular angle—the seats across the aisle from Dean and Castiel on the plane, the ones occupied by the supposedly sleeping woman and the lady with the laptop. Groaning, Castiel realizes he shouldn’t have given either of them the benefit of the doubt after all. He’s been with Dean for over a decade and is still somehow so naive. _People aren’t good,_ he thinks. _They’re opportunists._

The actual pictures aren’t as bad as they could be, and the comments are less judgemental and more filled with extreme excitement from fans pleased at the intimate glimpse into Castiel and Dean’s supposed love life. There’s one of them with the blanket but the camera is focused on their faces and it’s not obvious what’s going on _underneath._ Castiel stares at that one for longer than is strictly necessary, but the _expressions_ that are reflecting back from his screen are just… truly difficult to comprehend. 

Dean’s softly closed eyes, his lips grazing Castiel’s temple, Castiel staring up at him from his place against Dean’s chest, open affection laid bare across his face. They look—they _both_ look—like they aren’t faking it, for once. Is _that_ the face Castiel regularly makes when he looks at Dean?! How many people have seen him stare at Dean like that?! _Embarrassing._ One thing is for sure, Castiel really needs to work on controlling his face. 

The other two pictures aren’t as interesting, visually, but what they allude to certainly is. The first is a shot of their empty seats on the plane, and that gives Castiel an ominous clue as to what’s coming next. His stomach knots, but he forces himself to scroll down. The next image is of Dean, exiting the bathroom with a pleased smirk on his face and hair that’s a _lot_ more disheveled than in the earlier “cuddling” photo. The second is Castiel slipping out the same doors, cheeks pink and looking _incredibly_ guilty.

“Why has no one told me how _badly_ I control my face?” He wonders out loud, waving his phone around. Dean grabs his wrist to finish examining the pictures and laughs. 

“Damn, Cas,” he says with a low whistle. “Yea. That is not exactly subtle.” Dean’s tone is incredibly amused, but Castiel is not and he narrows his eyes to treat Dean with his smitiest glare. 

“Sooo…” Sam interjects from the speaker on Dean’s phone. “Your fans seem to be pretty divided, now. Some of them are sure this whole thing was orchestrated, because of the recent rumors. While these aren’t quite as explicit as a sex tape, they do have a point. The two of you haven’t been seen together in public in months, and in less than twenty-four hours you’re caught having sex in public _twice?_ I mean, guys, I’m glad you’re getting along, really. I’ll take this any day over the fighting. And the last thing I want is to get in the middle of whatever it is you’re doing—seriously, please, never tell me—but Meg and I talked and we need you to tone it down. Meg?”

“Hey, Clarence. Dean-o.” There’s a rustling noise as Meg’s voice comes over the line and Castiel buries his face in his hand.

“I apologize,” he says hastily, face burning. “We truly did not think our actions through.” Dean snorts and rolls his eyes, clearly unapologetic. 

“No worries, buddy,” Meg replies lightly. “Just, you know, like Sam said, reel it back in. Tomorrow when you’re filming, you need to be in _love,_ not in lust. Affectionate, but not over the top. But most of all, you’ve both gotta be genuine. Forget your fans, make _me_ believe it. Hell, make _Sam_ believe it. You get me?”

“I get you,” Castiel replies solemnly, nodding even though Meg can’t see him while continuing to glare at Dean when he’s slow to grumble an unintelligible assent. 

“And Cas?” Meg adds, “Work on controlling your face, would ya?” 

Castiel hangs up on her. 

Their PR “To Do” list for the evening comes through to Castiel’s phone just after he’s finishing redressing from his shower. Reclined on one of the two queen beds the room offers, he’s trying and failing to grab a minute’s peace while waiting for Dean to come out of the bathroom after doing the same. Castiel’s thoughts are all over the place; pissed that their intimate moment was caught on camera and exploited _again,_ thrilled that the moment happened at all, frustrated at Dean’s nonchalance about the whole damn thing. 

One thing is for sure, they have to stop this, this physical quid pro quo they’ve somehow fallen into. It’s not healthy, at least not for him. Maybe Dean can deal with it since he’s clearly long over his past feelings, but for Castiel, it’s all too fresh. He can’t fuck Dean casually while still trying _not_ to be in love with him. 

Because he is, he is in love with him, and the last few days and their stolen trysts have only made that abundantly clear. 

Meg’s text message lists several places she, Sam, and Garth want him and Dean to put in an appearance and post about it on social media. Honestly, Castiel thinks it’s all a bit heavy-handed, contrived even for them. Are their fans really so blind that they wouldn’t be even a _little_ suspicious of his account posting multiple “shiny happy relationship” pictures after months of inactivity? He’s pretty sure neither of them even posted on their anniversary, but now there’s a sex tape and they’ve suddenly decided to go public again? _Transparent._

Whatever. He’ll do it, and do so with a smile on his face because this is what he signed up for. A little wistfully, Castiel thinks about that day in the conference room and his and Dean’s joint decision to keep up the act for just a little while longer. If he’d known what they were getting into at the time, Castiel’s sure he would have picked door number two. But there’s no going back now.

Thinking about that makes him consider Dean, and what _he_ would do if he could go back in time, knowing what he knows now. Somehow, Castiel’s not so sure Dean would do anything differently. In fact, Dean seems wholly unbothered by all of this, bizarrely so. It’s true that out of the two of them, Dean’s the one who seeks the spotlight. As such, he’s much more inoculated to the weird and often invasive stories that show up gossiping about him from time to time in the tabloids (and even on reputable news sites). But in Castiel’s opinion, it’s one thing to accept that the world talks about you, it’s quite another to be _violated_ and exposed, your body and your private, _painful_ moments splashed across the internet, the glossy pages of magazines, and anywhere else that thinks they can make a buck off of your name, all for the world to see. In Dean’s place, used to it or not, Castiel would be furious.

And all of that makes him wonder, _why_ is Dean so calm? 

So when Dean’s phone lights up on the table across the room, Castiel isn’t as respectful of his privacy as perhaps he should have been. If Dean catches him, he’ll just say he was checking to see if he got the same itinerary from Sam, making sure that he and Meg are on the same page. But when he pushes off of the bed, pads over, and presses the Home button to light up Dean’s screen, it’s definitely not a message from _Sam_ that Castiel sees.

_**Charlie:** Dude, you have to tell him. This isn’t right! _

_What the hell does that mean?_

Increasingly suspicious but not confident enough in his theories to pick a fight with a man whose side he can’t leave for at _least_ the next twenty-four hours, Castiel hastily puts the phone back and wanders over to the large window overlooking the city. Doing his best to look casual as Dean wanders out dressed only in boxer briefs and rubbing at his wet hair with a towel, Castiel swallows hard and tries to focus on the view. The _outside_ view, that is.

The first thing Dean does is check his phone, scowling and swiping across the screen at what he sees. Castiel can’t help but narrow his eyes at the strange response, and he doesn't feel good about it, not one bit. _Still._ They have things to do, promises to keep to each other and their PR team.

“You get this list?” Dean asks, pulling Castiel from his reverie. “The 9/11 Memorial, the observation deck at the Empire State Building, dinner and drinks. Jesus, fuck. It’s already five and I’m starving, this is bullshit.” Dean’s face knits together in a pout, and _please, God, let him put on some clothing_ before Castiel loses it altogether and tosses him down on the bed. 

“Get dressed,” he forces himself to say. “We’ll get you a dirty water dog from one of the food carts to tide you over.” 

Dean shakes a finger in Castiel’s direction. “You’ve always been the smart one,” he says absently, still scrolling his phone, and Castiel stiffens at the mention of a long-forgotten inside joke. A joke he _hates,_ mind you, because it’s Dean’s way of being self-deprecating. He’d call Castiel the brains and himself the beauty, and never once has Castiel bought the joke because Dean’s never been kidding. 

“You know I hate when you do that,” Castiel mutters, slipping his feet back into his shoes and averting his eyes as Dean zips up dark wash jeans before donning a t-shirt and an all-black button down. 

“I know,” he says with a grin, slapping Castiel on the shoulder as he pockets his wallet and the hotel room key. “C’mon, sunshine, let’s ride.” 

Gritting his teeth, Castiel follows, but internally, he’s already decided; he can’t take this hot and cold bullshit anymore. When they’re done filming the show tomorrow, he and Dean are having words. 

That’s if Castiel is able to restrain himself for that long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys all so much for the comments and feedback. I appreciate every one and am having such a fun time talking with y'all!! Please feel free to ask questions or whatever, though if you don't want spoilers of any kind PLEASE say so (because I am a mother hen and just want to reassure you) or if you're reading the comments beware: vague, general spoilers MAY exist! :-*


	6. The Sights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up, must come down.
> 
> Also, Cas and Dean do touristy stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climax part 1/2 :-D
> 
> warnings for explicit content of the penetrative variety.

They start with the 9/11 Memorial. It’s mobbed, and Benny closes the distance he’s been keeping to warn them off going inside right away. Even Dean isn’t comfortable with the idea of being in such a confined space with limited exits and such big crowds, and Benny looks thankful for that. Not like Castiel can blame him, he knows exactly how hard it can be to talk a stubborn Dean out of something he has his heart set on doing. 

After a quick text conference with Sam, the plan is reshaped to include a few pictures outside (and a hot dog for Dean). They send a few options off to the team via text, and the ones that end up getting posted are a sunset shot of Castiel in the Plaza, taken from behind with the Oculus in the background. That one goes on Dean’s Instagram. The other is a much funnier picture of Dean with a hot dog shoved most of the way inside his face, sitting on a bench halfway down the street, away from the crowds. 

Castiel insisted on that one for his own account, uncomfortable already with the idea of using a memorial site for the sake of some fake PR. It’s just as well that they didn’t end up going inside… That would have to be some unbelievably bad juju, and Castiel has enough of that already. Their PR people are brilliant strategists, great at protecting his and Dean’s public images, but they don’t always see the forest for the trees. 

They take a cab to the Empire State Building, Benny in the front seat and the two of them in the back. Dean drapes an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and snaps a few selfies with his phone, all of which Castiel adamantly refuses to smile for. “This isn’t on the list,” he grumbles, trying to shift away from Dean’s grip but having nowhere to go. 

“What’s up with you?” Dean looks at him sideways and pokes him in the ribs, probably because he knows Castiel hates it. 

“Knock it off, Dean. I’m fine, just tired. It’s been a long day. And I’m hungry.” 

“Should’ve had a hot dog,” Dean replies with a grin and an eyebrow wiggle. Despite his mood, Castiel’s unable to fully swallow his smile. This silly, dorky side of Dean has always been his weakness, and Dean knows it, taking advantage by swooping in and snapping a picture with Castiel smiling, however reluctantly. Which only makes him laugh, which then makes Dean kiss his cheek. _Snap, snap, snap._ “Garth is gonna love these,” Dean murmurs as he shifts away, already swiping at his screen as he slumps against the cab door. 

Just like that, Castiel’s good mood dissipates once again with the abrupt reminder that _none of this is fucking real._ He sighs and stares out the window, watching the streets of Manhattan crawl by in the gridlock of evening traffic. 

Castiel’s opening the car door before the cab is even fully stopped, anxious to get away from Dean’s side, if only for a moment. He takes a few deep breaths, grateful that Dean’s distracted paying the cabbie when Benny touches his arm.

“You alrigh’, Chief?” Benny’s light blue eyes are narrowed with concern, but Castiel waves him off.

“Fine, Benny, thank you,” Castiel replies dismissively, but Benny’s not so easy to brush off. 

“I know that’s a lie,” he prods. “But it ain’t my place to tell you what to do. Listen,” he says, shooting a furtive glance to where Dean’s exiting the cab and pulling Castiel further onto the sidewalk to give them a couple more seconds. “This whole thing is fucked, if you want my opinion.” He holds up a hand when Castiel opens his mouth, and Castiel waits. “All I’m sayin’ is that if you need an out, you just say the word. I know you an’ me don’t always see eye to eye, but I have your back as much as Dean’s.” 

The man in question’s appearance brings a necessary end to the conversation, but Castiel nods and smiles tightly at the bodyguard. He knows Benny is just trying to help and truthfully, he’s grateful for the option. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“What’s up?” Dean questions, tilting his head and looking between them. 

“Nothin’ brother,” Benny replies casually. “Just suggestin’ to Hot Wings here that we hit up Eataly instead of that pretentious, two hundred dollar a plate place your idiot brother suggested. Tons of food choices and a rooftop bar. Whaddaya say?” He raises his eyebrows and Castiel has to hand it to him, the guy knows Dean well. Predictably, his face lights up at the mention of food and alcohol. 

“Yea,” Dean agrees. “Fuck ‘em, let’s do that.” His stomach rumbles and Dean places a hand on it, looking longingly over at Castiel.

“ _After_ ,” Castiel reminds him, steering them both inside with his palm resting on the small of Dean’s back. 

Inside the building, they stand in line for the elevator that will take them up to the observation deck, Benny resuming his distant but watchful stance behind them. So far, no one’s paid them any mind at all, which is both lucky and disappointing, considering what they’re trying to accomplish here. At the front of the line, Dean shows the electronic tickets on his phone that were emailed to him by Sam, and they’re ushered onto the lift. As the doors start to close, Castiel notices several people standing in the line behind them pointing and whispering to each other, their phones out and poised for recording. 

The doors close and thankfully, the lift operator let them go up alone, but Castiel’s done this sort of thing enough times to know that the reprieve will be short. The next group will be coming behind them in mere minutes, and that means there’s about a zero percent chance they’re getting out of here without fan interaction. He’s not sure whether to be relieved or worried but he taps Benny’s arm, just in case.

“I saw, cher,” Benny mutters, and Dean looks up from his phone. “Fans,” he explains, and Dean nods, returning his attention to his illuminated screen, unfazed. “You two should work quickly up there, get the shots you need right away, in case we have to make a move.” 

_Make a move_ is Benny-speak for _get the fuck out of dodge as quickly as possible,_ which admittedly, is a bit of a mouthful when time is of the essence. 

As soon as the elevator doors dings open on the eighty-sixth floor, Dean’s back in PR mode, looping an arm through Castiel’s and guiding him effortlessly over to a clear spot on the open-air deck. They take a bunch of selfies with New York in the background, and then Benny steps in to work the camera. At that point, Castiel starts to get suspicious, since Dean and Benny exchange a glance that’s all too familiar—they’ve _planned this._ “Dean,” Castiel starts, ready to protest, but just then, the group of fans from the lobby come tumbling out of the doors and spot them immediately.

“Just trust me,” Dean says softly, standing close and tipping Castiel’s chin up with his index finger, eyes soft and sincere. Castiel’s pretty sure he can see where this is going, and whether it actually _is_ or not, it all _feels_ way too orchestrated for his taste, but he’s in it now. Plus, stubborn Dean and all that, the quickest way out is through. Tried and tested. Briefly, Castiel’s mind flickers back to the sex tape, the women on the plane, and now these supposed fans. He thinks about Benny’s words downstairs, his somewhat out-of-place concern, his readiness to take Dean’s camera. 

_Is Dean actually behind all of this? Would he really go that far?_ If it _is_ true, at least this time Castiel has his pants _on_ and doesn’t look recently ravished. Still, the idea is sobering, jarring that Dean might have taken advantage, might have used him and exploited him for what ultimately amounts to a bit of press. 

That disturbing train of thought comes to a crashing halt before Castiel can get caught up enough to decide to derail the entire trip, something he’ll perhaps regret later. For now, though, he’s distracted by the feeling of Dean’s lips on his own, soft and careful, so much like the old Dean that it’s hard not to forget that everything has changed. Dean’s one hand is warm and steadying on Castiel’s jaw, the other wrapped around his waist, and he’s kissing like he means it. It’s confusing, because the only kisses they’ve shared in the last _year_ have been alternating attempts at humiliation and revenge, plus the one time they had sex. Even on the plane, they hadn’t been intimate in a _real_ way, only exchanged sexual favors before going on their merry ways. 

It wasn’t like this. This is… something Castiel was wholly unprepared for, and wouldn’t have believed had he not been experiencing it directly. A kiss for the sake of a kiss is so much more personal, so much more revealing than anything else they’ve done. The shrieks and giggles of the fans in the background fade away to where it’s just Castiel and Dean, and nothing else matters. And when Dean finally lets him go, pulling back to look Castiel in the eyes, there’s no hiding what’s in them. 

Dean feels something. Dean _feels_ something for him. He’s _not_ that good of an actor, Castiel knows him well enough to be sure of that. While _he_ might have a problem controlling his face, Dean’s eyes give him away every time. It’s how he’d known Dean was attracted to him in the first place, his gaze continually darting down to Castiel’s lips, licking his own at the same time whenever they spoke. And now, Castiel doesn’t know _what_ to make of what he sees, searching Dean’s face in the hopes that it’ll become clear.

But Dean shutters it all back behind a wall as quickly as he can, expression closing up as he turns to take his phone back from Benny and address the waiting group. Somewhat shaken, Castiel excuses himself and hopes no one will follow, shuffling over to one of the binocular viewers and pressing his eyes to the cool metal. He scouts the buildings, the water, the streets below without really seeing anything, still wrapped up in his thoughts about Dean and what all of this means. He should really take Benny up on his offer. He should get the hell out of here, leave Dean to do the PR spot by himself, hightail it back to L.A. and go _home,_ to his familiar house in the Hills where everything makes sense. 

Of course, he’s not going to do that. If there’s one thing Castiel’s always been stupid about, it’s Dean. And if there’s even a _remote_ chance that _his_ Dean is still in there somewhere… Castiel’s going to stay, going to try to get him back. That doesn’t mean that Dean is automatically forgiven, especially if Castiel’s suspicions turn out to be true, but they can cross that bridge when they come to it. For now, Castiel wonders what it might be like if he were to open up first. If he were to give Dean the benefit of the doubt, at least for the rest of the night.

 _One night,_ he promises himself. _And tomorrow, we’re going to have words._

Castiel straightens up from the viewer and casts a glance over to where Dean is still snapping selfies with fans. Well, at least they’re getting the PR they came for. Dean catches his eye and motions him over, and though it pains him, Castiel goes and puts on a smile for the photos. Dean’s arm stays tight around his waist the whole time, all the way into the elevator. This time, when Dean moves to pull away after the doors close, Castiel catches his wrist and keeps him there. When he tips his head to look up at Dean’s face, he seems surprised, cautious but not unhappy, and he stops trying to take his arm away. 

It’s something.

Dinner winds up a sit-down version of their visit to the Empire State Building’s Observation Deck. Eataly, Benny’s suggestion, has multiple restaurants and exactly _zero_ privacy. There’s a central market where people wander through, and the restaurant tables are pretty much all visible to anyone who cares to look. Once again, great for PR, not so much for Castiel’s sanity. Benny sits a few tables away and keeps an eye out, but nothing happens that’s so dire he needs to interfere. Still, Castiel can barely get a bite in between people stopping by to ask for autographs and selfies and to _“just tell you, Dean, I’m such a big fan, you saved my life.”_

Swallowing his irritation since this _is_ what they’re here for, Castiel smiles and is kind, poses with fans and with Dean, snaps pictures with hastily handed over phones when said fans aren’t interested in him. He wishes more people weren’t interested in him. 

They order dessert, and Benny _finally_ gets out of his seat to stand guard and turn away any additional fans and onlookers. Castiel sighs and sinks back into his seat. At some point, he’d moved his plate from the space across from Dean to the one next to him, simply because he was tired of getting up. At least that way, he could lean in quickly before going back to eating.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “Last time I took that many pictures was at a convention. Lot more fun when you’re getting paid to do it, that’s for sure.” Castiel grunts and shovels a forkful of tiramisu into his mouth. The rest of his pasta is already packaged in a takeaway bag, having gone cold before he could finish it. He’ll heat it up in the room later, but for now, he’s starving. “I could use a drink,” Dean continues, handing his credit card off to the waitress without so much as looking at the bill. 

Benny appears behind her, sliding into the chair on Dean’s other side, looking as exhausted as Castiel feels. “There’s a bar upstairs,” he offers and Castiel eyes him suspiciously.

“Is it actually a bar, or another petting-zoo-style corral where people can stare and peck at us like the freaks we are?” 

With a snort and a smile, Benny crooks a finger in Castiel’s direction. “Touché,” he says. “But I promise this one is just a bar. I think we deserve it.” 

“You can head back, if you want,” Dean tells him softly, a hand touching Castiel’s knee underneath the table. “No pressure.” Castiel considers the option. A couple of hours ago, he probably would have taken Dean up on it, likely would have relished the chance for the time alone and the opportunity to fall asleep without Dean breathing down his neck. Or just, being in the same room, _reminding_ him. But now, Castiel’s not so sure what he wants. Part of him is still angry at Dean, still brimming with questions and accusations that’ll need to come out one way or another. A larger part of him, though, is stuck on that kiss. Whether it was planned ahead of time, whether it was mostly for PR, that doesn’t change the fact that Castiel _knows_ what he saw in Dean’s eyes, and he’s not quite ready to give up on exploring that just yet. 

“I wouldn’t mind a drink,” he says carefully, noting that Dean looks pleased, maybe even relieved. Benny just looks tired, which mitigates some of the residual concerns Castiel still harbors about potentially being led into another PR trap. 

The bar Benny was referring to is on the fourteenth floor of the building Eataly is in, some trendy spot called SERRA that’s basically a greenhouse masquerading as a restaurant. It’s not the kind of place Dean would normally be into, but as they step into the space he shoots Castiel a wide smile. It’s been a long time since Dean has noticed anything about him, nevermind something as trivial as Castiel’s affinity for a particular _space,_ so that’s new, but there’s no other explanation for his expression and the hand on Castiel’s back. 

In all fairness, the place is unbelievably gorgeous. It does resemble a greenhouse from the inside, with all the walls and ceiling made of glass, providing stunning views of the city from every angle. Not just that, but the whole room is decorated with garlands upon garlands of beautiful flowers and greenery hanging from just about every inch of available space. It makes the place feel cozy and more secluded than it is, which is precisely what Castiel had been hoping for. 

Dean speaks quietly to the hostess while Castiel continues to marvel at the decorations, making it necessary for Dean to take his hand and guide him along to their table, lest he be left behind. The hostess seats them in a quiet corner where there are a couple of benches and comfortable chairs surrounding a small coffee table, away from the rest of the patrons. They’re surrounded by more plants, flowers, and garlands, making it near impossible for prying eyes to spy once they’re seated. _What a relief,_ Castiel thinks, sinking down onto one of the benches and closing his eyes to relax for a moment. 

When he sits up again, Benny’s preoccupied with the menu but Dean is staring. There’s an odd, unreadable expression on his face that he wipes as soon as he sees Castiel looking back at him. “Here,” he says, hastily clearing his throat and handing over a menu. “Check out all the frou-frou drinks they’ve got. Right up your alley.” 

“ _You’re_ the one who likes fruity mixed drinks, Dean,” Castiel reminds him, and Dean blushes, lifting the menu up so that it covers his face. 

“Don’t judge me,” he mutters, and Benny chuckles. 

“Ain’t nobody here to impress ‘cept us, Chief,” he says and thankfully, he’s right. 

Several various fruity and not-so-fruity concoctions for each of them later, the table in front of them is overflowing and the three men are finally more relaxed. Benny’s leaning back in his chair, a foot propped up on another as he talks quietly on his phone to his wife back in California. Dean’s splayed out, taking up a ton of space with both of his legs, so much so that his right is intertwined with Castiel’s ankles on the floor between them. As far as Castiel’s concerned, that’s a perfectly pleasant thing to be happening. Sucking on his straw until the last remnants of his drink gurgle up inside of it, he sighs with happiness. The pretty colors and fairy lights crisscrossing the room began blurring together over half an hour ago, but he’s warm and comfortable and Dean is _looking_ at him again. 

“What?” Castiel asks, jiggling the foot Dean’s leg is draped over to get his attention. When his husband just smiles and shrugs, glassy eyes wandering over Castiel’s chest, he crosses his other leg over, effectively pinning Dean’s leg in place. “Now you’re trapped,” he says, a little slurry and possibly peppered with a giggle, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. “Can’t get up until you answer me,” Castiel declares, sliding his empty glass onto the table and almost knocking three others over in the process. 

Dean just props his chin in his hand, elbow resting on the arm of the bench. “This doesn’t suck,” he says.

“That’s… that is not what I asked you,” Castiel chastises, shaking a finger in Dean’s direction, which Dean surprises him by catching and popping straight into his mouth. “Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening as Dean’s stay locked on his. 

Releasing his finger with a little slurp, Dean swallows and laces their hands together. “We should go,” he says lowly. “Or we could—”

“Alright,” Benny interjects, apparently having finished his phone conversation just in the nick of time, before Castiel and Dean could drunkenly manage to combine the last two days’ sex incidents into one. A sex tape and some pictures that suggest a public hookup are one thing; both at the same time? Eventually, a tabloid is going to declare one or both of them to be out of control sex addicts. Honestly, Castiel’s not sure that’s even very far off, anymore. What is _happening_ to his common sense? 

_Right,_ he remembers, as Dean slips an arm around his waist as they make _(stumble)_ their way to the elevators. _Dean._ Dean isn’t just his weakness, he’s the love of Castiel’s goddamn life, and for whatever reason, he’s suddenly _acting_ like he still is, even when the cameras are off. All the way out to the cab and on the way to the hotel, Dean doesn’t stop _touching._ If anything, he becomes _more_ insistent, more affectionate as time goes on. Castiel’s drunk, but he’s not an idiot, and despite the cognitive impairment, he knows that everything he’s allowing to happen right now is a _bad idea._

All the same, he can’t quite figure out how to unwind his limbs from where they've tangled with Dean’s, can’t quite bring himself to stop Dean from kissing down the side of his neck, from putting his warm, bare hand on the skin under Castiel’s shirt and above his hip. Without meaning to, he spends the majority of the cab ride basically in Dean’s lap. 

Benny sits in the front seat and pretends not to notice, and Castiel’s sparks of deja vu to the days when their marriage was _just like this_ are going haywire. 

Somehow they make it from the cab up to their rooms without drawing too much attention to themselves, or any of them wiping out on the polished lobby floors. Benny bids them goodnight at the door and rolls his eyes when Dean tells him with absolutely no sense of ambiguity to _not_ come knocking until the morning. Letting himself be pushed and manhandled into the suite, Castiel’s dizzy brain and addled sense of self-worth flat-out refuse to help him out of this one. 

Instead, the embers of his still-burning love for Dean flare hopefully to life and his libido hammers the final nail in his coffin. _Oh, he’s definitely doing this._ The consequences will be there tomorrow, but they’re a problem for Future (Sober) Castiel. 

Currently intoxicated Castiel, on the other hand, is more than happy to let Dean push hands underneath his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. He’s blissfully pleased to let Dean bite at his bottom lip, lick into his mouth, and shove him down onto the bed. Drunken Castiel is quick to get both hands in Dean’s hair, to rut up against his stomach, to moan and sigh and rock against Dean when he bites down on a nipple, rolling it in between his teeth. He’s pushing his own pants off, mouthing at Dean’s boxer-briefs, falling back against the bed before tugging Dean up to straddle his face, to thrust into his mouth. 

The room isn’t quite still in his peripheral vision, but Castiel barely notices, grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s ass and taking him deep. His vision outright whirls when he pulls off, shoving his way up and over onto all fours, but Castiel presses his face down in the bedding for a moment and he manages to make it all still. 

“Please, Dean,” he murmurs, half into the sheets but Dean’s already shushing him, soothing hands down his sides, pressing kisses to his shoulder blades and the knobs of his spine. Castiel moans and pushes back, wanting Dean to hold him, to cover him, to keep them as close together as possible. If he’s going to do this stupid thing, he wants _all of it,_ the full illusion. Not just Dean’s fingers and his cock, but everything about him; his soft lips, his sweet smile, the way he’s always careful to check in on Castiel, whispering in his ear all sorts of beautiful things. 

And it’s easy to pretend, this time. It’s easy to slip back into that headspace where he and Dean are _one,_ they’re together, they’re perfect. While Dean’s fucking him, it’s familiar in all the best ways, smooth and slow, with Dean draped across his back and kissing, nipping at his face and neck the whole time. Castiel _forgets._ He’s drunk and exhausted and burned, and he _forgets._ His body is singing and sparking, tensing and _so ready_ and then he’s _coming and—_

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel gasps. “I love you, I _love_ you.” 

Dean doesn’t even stick around to finish what he started. After the door to the suite has opened and closed, when Castiel’s laying there naked in his own cooling spend, still breathless and flushed in the now-empty room, he’s fairly sure that Dean was still hard as he tried to stuff himself back inside his pants. 

“Fuck,” he says, dragging a hand through his sweaty hair and squeezing his eyes shut against the now-spinning room. “Fuck.” 

This is definitely a new low.

Dean doesn’t show up again until the next morning, when he and Benny come knocking on Castiel’s door to let him know that it’s time to go to the set. Castiel supposes Dean must have slept in Benny’s room, but neither of them mentions it and Castiel’s certainly not going to be the one to bring it up. Thankfully, by the time the two of them appear, he’s showered and dressed, having anticipated after Dean’s great escape that things would probably go this way. Dean is nothing if not predictable when it comes to his career, and it’s not as if this will be the first time they’ve had to pretend to be in love while actively in the middle of a fight.

_A fight? Is that what it’s called when someone makes a drunken love declaration in the middle of what is supposed to be casual sex?_

Castiel’s pretty sure that’s not right. This isn’t a fight, this is the result of _Castiel_ allowing Dean’s hot and cold bullshit to reel him back in, to make him think that Dean could ever change, ever be anything other than the horny, selfish asshole he is. It’s his own fault, ignoring the red flags and warning signs so that he could see whatever it is he wanted to see. Dean doesn’t love him, hasn’t for a very long time. Castiel is just convenient, necessary, even, a way for Dean to get what he wants out of life. A _prop._ It’s not as if Castiel doesn’t know that, hasn’t always known. He just needs to _remember,_ to not drop his guard at the tiniest speck of fake kindness Dean’s only showing him because it benefits himself. 

As they’re boarding the elevator, Castiel avoids eye contact and Dean hasn’t so much as said “Good morning.” Despite that, Castiel is feeling confident again, like he can do this. Sure, the night before was humiliating, but it’s only the latest in a long string of repeat indignities Castiel’s suffered at Dean’s hands. He came here to do a job, and he’ll see it through like the professional he is. 

Still, as they step from the elevator into the hotel lobby and Dean closes the space between them, Castiel’s anger picks up at a low simmer, deep in his gut. It’s so _easy_ for Dean to put on this show, to turn the illusion of affection towards Castiel on and off like a faucet, and that makes him furious. At Dean for being such a lying asshole, at _himself_ for believing it, for continuing to have real feelings for the guy despite knowing how he is, at the whole goddamn idea of _PR_ and a fake relationship at all. 

Honestly, if Castiel had just had a _little_ more confidence in himself to begin with, a little less fear regarding where he’d stand in the professional world without Dean propping him up, he wouldn’t have felt the need to stoop this low, to debase himself this way in the first place. 

_This is it,_ Castiel thinks, frustrated but resolute. He’ll do _The Tonight Show._ He’ll play the part until they’re back in L.A., but then that’s it. After filming is done this afternoon, he’s going to tell Dean he’s finished. That he can’t do this anymore. Let Sam worry about how to handle the fallout with the press and whatever else from today forward. They can wait to file the papers for as long as Sam and Dean want, none of that matters to him. The important thing is, Castiel is through pretending. When their plane touches down in L.A., he’s going home to the city. The photoshoot is toast, this game is over and done with. 

Dean’s hand squeezing his hip, opening the waiting limo’s door to help him inside, only makes him more determined to follow through. 

_This is too hard. It isn’t worth it, none of this is worth it._

Benny’s gaze lingers on Castiel as the door closes and Castiel can’t help but notice he looks pretty pained himself, dark circles under his eyes like he didn’t sleep well.

 _Hangover or Dean?_ Castiel wonders, but his own issues are more than enough to worry about for the time being. Benny’s on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOBODY PANIC. This is the very last time you're gonna feel this way! Everything comes out in a big way in the next chapter. Thank you all for your comments and encouragement, i love you guys so much.
> 
> I'm @caslostwings on twitter, castielslostwings on tumblr. :-)
> 
> Edit: check out SERRA in NYC, it’s AMAZING: https://www.housebeautiful.com/lifestyle/a29040373/serra-dautunno-nyc-rooftop/


	7. The Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And sometimes you have to go back,  
> to know just where you’ve been.  
> But we're old enough to know that  
> what has been will be again... and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, bitches. this is the big reveal. 
> 
> Y'all made me feel bad for you in the comments the last time, so here i am taking pity. :-P
> 
> don't ever say I don't love you and never gave you anything. <3
> 
> warning: this is 7k and straight through, no paragraph breaks or time jumps, so settle in. a reminder that i wrote this in response to the destiel fight/breakup, you should notice some big lines ganked directly from the show. Hopefully, this feels a lot more satisfying than watching Cas actually walk out that door.

_And sometimes you have to go back,_   
_to know just where you’ve been._   
_But we're old enough to know that_   
_what has been will be again... and again._   
_And the bravest of faces are the ones where we fake it,_   
_and the roles that we play._   
_Nothing matters when the pain is all but gone,_   
_when you are finally awake._   
_Despite the overwhelming odds, tomorrow came._

__

There’s a chill in the air as Castiel steps out of the car outside 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Pulling his jean jacket more tightly across his body to protect from the wind, Castiel lets himself be tucked into Dean’s side for the short walk to the 6th Avenue Entrance, the one with the _Tonight Show_ marquee and Jimmy Fallon’s name spelled out over it. People are lined up on the sidewalk framing both sides of the door—waiting, excited, all smiles and waves, calling both his and Dean’s names. Apparently their Instagram posts had done the job they were meant to; people clearly know they’re in New York, that they are filming, and they’re interested. Since this is a planned appearance and not a spontaneous one, they also have to deal with Paparazzi this time, which is a lot less enjoyable than fan interaction. 

The waiting photographers are ruthless from the jump—physically pushing the boundaries that 30 Rock’s security has set up and yelling relentlessly, anything to make Dean or Castiel react, to get their attention. The snapping of cameras and flashing of lights is something Castiel’s relatively unbothered by, but the comments are another thing altogether. 

“ _Dean, Dean tell us about the sex tape!”_

_“Dean, are you always the pitcher?”_

_“What do you have to say about the rumors that you’re broken up?”_

_“Was it intentional? Did you release the footage on purpose because people are questioning your marriage?”_

That one stings, hitting just a little too close to home, but Dean smiles easily, at least as far as the Paparazzi should be able to tell. Castiel, on the other hand, can see the tightness in his eyes, even hidden as they are behind his sunglasses. He takes a page from Dean and adjusts his own, pushing them up the bridge of his nose to better conceal his expression.

“Fellas, fellas,” Dean replies to them as a group, motioning with his hands for them to calm down. “Me and Cas are great. Not thrilled about our naked asses splashed all over the internet, but hey, at least we look good together, right?” Dean tips his glasses down and winks, his other arm still wrapped securely around Castiel’s waist. His fingers are tighter than usual, though, digging into Castiel’s hip bone. Dean’s stressed, and it shows when he dips his head down to put his lips as close to Castiel’s ear as possible. 

“ _Smile,”_ he hisses quietly, pulling back with what to anyone else would look like an affectionate grin on his face. Castiel does his best to mirror it, plastering himself to Dean’s side so that his forehead rests against Dean’s temple when they pose for pictures. It’s maybe a bit much, but he gets through it with the knowledge that this will be the last time he’ll have to.

The gathered press are satisfied enough by their answers and the brief pause for a few photos that they let them go afterward without much protest. Ever the humble and genial star, Dean then stops to sign every autograph thrust in his face and snap every selfie until Benny hauls him away. For the most part, Castiel just stands there, but several of the fans clamor for his attention too, and he ends up signing and smiling for nearly as many of them as Dean, walking away with a cramp in his hand and his cheek muscles aching. Absently and seemingly without thinking, Dean grabs Castiel’s hand from where he’s rubbing it and works his palm between deft fingers as they walk.

“Thank you,” Castiel says quietly as they pile into the elevator with an NBC page, Benny, and a couple of other suits. Security, maybe, if the earpieces are anything to go by. 

“Sure,” Dean replies with a nod, though the look he gives Castiel is positively inscrutable. “Listen, Cas, uh, can we talk after this? Back at the hotel, before we head to the airport.” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, only slightly irritated that Dean’s once again three steps ahead of him. “I was going to… Well, it doesn’t matter.” The elevator doors open and their group is led down a hall, presumably towards the dressing rooms. People are rushing about with equipment and various props, clipboards and headsets and all sorts of other things. Jimmy Fallon, the host, emerges from a room with his name on the door, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt with a bright smile on his face. Modest and friendly, he greets them both briefly, shaking Dean’s hand before he’s rushed off by his entourage to hair and makeup. Waving a hand in his wake, he calls back over his shoulder to promise them a great show. 

There’s really no time after that for things to get awkward, despite the two of them being left alone to video conference with Sam in their shared dressing room. Regardless, Sam picks up on the uncomfortable vibe immediately. _Damn him._ “What’s wrong?” He asks anxiously, leaning forward and squinting at his phone screen like he thinks if he can just get close enough he’ll be able to parse out the issue. “What happened? Don’t bullshit me, Dean, we don’t have time for it.” 

Sighing, Dean waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, Sammy,” he reassures his brother. “Say what you gotta say.” 

Sam continues narrowing his eyes and looking between them skeptically, but after another minute of silence where neither Castiel nor Dean volunteers information, he reluctantly lets it go. “If you’re sure…” He trails off, clearly hoping they’ll change their minds.

“Sam,” Dean barks. 

“Right,” Sam says. “Okay, so, you know most of this stuff already.” He’s right, but rambles on anyway, running down the talking points each of them will be expected to hit. After, he reviews the questions he’d approved from the _Tonight Show’s_ writing staff and reminds them that Jimmy won’t stray from those topics unless Castiel or Dean leads him, which they definitely should not attempt to do. He goes over casual touches, tells them to be sure not to _over_ do it, and to _“watch your facial expressions.”_ That last comment is clearly directed at Castiel and he has to resist the urge to mouth off about Dean being the one whose uncontrolled face got them here in the first place. Him and his blatant _lip licking._

When Sam runs out of things to grill them on, he tries to start back in on what’s up between them. Thankfully, Dean cuts him off and hangs up, promising to let him know how it went after they’re finished. There’s an uncomfortable moment or two where Castiel is thigh-to-thigh with Dean on the small green room couch, but then Rowena’s hired squad knocks and bursts in and they’re off to the races. 

Forty-five minutes later, Castiel is powdered, buffed, coiffed, and feeling like he might not have to worry about his face after all. Since now, if he moves any muscles more than a millimeter in any direction, he’s pretty sure the mask caking his skin is going to crack and fall right off. Looking in the mirror, though, he has to admit, he looks the better part of a decade younger and like he’s actually slept through the night sometime in the last week. Touching his fingers to his cheek and turning his head this way and that, Castiel can’t actually remember the last time he saw his reflection staring back without bags under his eyes.

“You look good,” Dean says gruffly, standing in the doorway and rocking back on his heels, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. He’s changed from his normal t-shirt and flannel into a plain, long-sleeved black button-down with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, exposing tan, supple forearms. “ _Good”_ is an understatement for how Dean looks at the moment and he undoubtedly knows it, so Castiel just grunts and keeps his mouth shut. “Alright,” Dean sighs. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“Indeed.” 

They’re mic'd up and called to places not two minutes after that with instructions for Dean to go out first, as planned. Castiel watches on a screen just offstage as his charismatic husband greets Jimmy with a wide smile and a back-clapping hug, collapsing in the seat to Jimmy’s right when they’re done. The studio audience claps and whoops excitedly for Dean which is unsurprising, and Dean handles them graciously with a two-fingered kiss, a wave, and a mouthed “thank you.” 

The next minute or so is banter between Jimmy and Dean about nothing substantial, so much so that Castiel almost zones out. He hears Jimmy poke fun at Dean’s casual outfit, something about most people dressing up for damage control appearances on his show, but Dean just shrugs and smirks. “I am who I am, Jimmy, you should know that by now,” he says with a wink.

“Oh, touché,” Jimmy replies, even though he doesn’t know Dean at all. Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes. _People actually watch this crap?_

“So, I guess we should get down to it... You’ve had, uh, a bit of a tough week, haven’t you?” 

“I mean, I don’t know that I’d label _all_ of it _tough._ I was having a pretty good time right up until I woke up to find my bare ass all over the internet.” The audience laughs alongside Dean while the faintest blush colors his cheeks and he grins ruefully. 

“Well, for what it’s worth, none of us think any less of you, right guys?” Jimmy gestures to the crowd and they erupt in a round of cheers and applause. “Oh, wow. I didn’t get a cheering section like that when my nudes went public.” 

“I was a fan,” Dean interjects and Jimmy laughs.

“Take a look,” Jimmy says, pointing towards the camera. From where he’s at, Castiel can’t see the clip they’re playing, but it’s some sort of spoof on Titanic with Jimmy playing the part of Rose having her picture drawn. He watches Dean instead, notes Jimmy checking in on him and Dean accepting a glass of water from a PA. Outwardly, he’s doing fine, but Castiel clocks several of the quirks he knows indicate that Dean is stressed: rubbing a palm against his thigh, pursing his lips in a way that makes his dimples come out, smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I understand why you’d be ashamed of that,” Dean jokes right before they go to commercial. Since they aren’t live there’s no actual waiting, and the production team resets immediately to keep rolling. When Jimmy and Dean resume their interview, there are fewer jokes as Jimmy steers them into the meat of the conversation. 

“No, I know you only brought me on here to make fun of me,” Dean is saying and the audience laughs, “But truthfully, it can be frustrating. To live your life in the spotlight and have people analyzing and judging your every movement, your motivations, your _face_. I’ve read comments from my fans on social media talking about how Cas and I secretly hate each other, that our relationship is just PR, that it’s all some kind of ploy for attention and fame.” 

“And what would you say to those fans, if you had the opportunity?” 

Dean hesitates, his fingers picking at the seam of his jeans on his leg. “I guess I’d tell them that it hurts,” he says finally with a little nod, like he’s agreeing with himself. “You know, I’m an actor and I’ve been in a few arguably successful movies.” He pauses, that patented Winchester smirk back on his face as the audience cheers for his career. “So I get that there’s some level of access, where people feel like they know me and they _want_ to know me, and I accept that and I’m appreciative, I really am. I wouldn’t have a career if it weren’t for my fans.” Another cheer. “And to an extent, Cas has that too, but Cas is also…” Dean pauses, clearly struggling with his words, and Castiel straightens up, his focus sharpening as he recognizes the signs of a Dean about to go off script.

“Oh no,” he whispers. 

“Cas is also _mine,_ ” Dean finishes, and the audience _awwws_. Dean licks his lips and adjusts how he’s sitting to lean in toward Jimmy like he’s telling him something intimate. Castiel has to admit, it sure looks as if he’s sincere. “And our relationship is something that should have always been just _ours_. But I think sometimes, when you hear something enough, you start to believe it. It creeps into your mind and changes the way you think about the things you should _know._ So, unfortunately, I can’t say that me and Cas are completely fine, because those hateful things our fans say? We hear it all so often that on occasion, however accidentally, we internalize it a little bit.”

“So…” Jimmy glances down briefly at his cards but Castiel only recognizes him trying to reorganize his thoughts because he’s looking for it. He wonders if the production team will edit some of this out later, or worse, edit it to look even more dramatic. “Are you saying there _is_ some truth to the breakup rumors? That you and Castiel aren’t as happy as you try to appear?”

“No,” Dean replies immediately, shaking his head at the same time. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. The thing is, I love Cas. I’ve loved Cas since the first day I met him and I’ve never stopped. But, you know, life isn’t always easy, and sometimes _stuff_ gets in the way, makes you feel like love isn’t enough. Fame, fans, work, _life_ , it all gets mixed up in your head until it’s hard to remember what’s important, what’s real. I think some of what our fans have picked up on was maybe me, not entirely sure what was real anymore.” 

There’s a heavy silence that follows Dean’s words, thicker than the kind one usually sees on lighthearted shows such as this one, and Jimmy breaks it carefully. “But you figured it out?” He prods gently and Dean nods, the side of his mouth quirking up even as he blinks back wetness in his eyes, visible even on the television’s screen. 

The edges of the room blur a little in Castiel’s peripheral vision and this whole thing starts to feel somewhat unreal. This trip, this entire _week_ has been hard enough, but now it’s becoming difficult to see where Dean’s facade ends and the real Dean begins. Was that entire spiel an act? If it had been _any_ other time, _any_ other place, Castiel would have confidently said that no, it wasn’t. That Dean isn’t capable of lying with such sincere emotion. But everything is confusing, and Dean is the one who left _him_ high and dry last night, humiliated and alone, like always. And now they’re in public, and he’s suddenly flipped his script?

_What is happening?_

Before Castiel has any kind of chance to parse it out, a producer is shoving him forward, telling him to _walk,_ to go, that his cue is up. Apparently, while he was lost in thought, Jimmy and Dean had segued into bringing him out on stage. _Fuck._ Now he’s distracted, he’s got no idea what they were even saying, and he’s going to make a fool of himself on national TV. _Fantastic._

But when he steps from the short hallway, through the curtains, and onto the _Tonight Show’s_ brightly-lit set, all he can see is _Dean._ And Dean is standing, crossing the room and reaching for him like no one else is watching. 

Castiel sees him, registers the honest sincerity in his face, the way Jimmy stays sitting, keeping his distance, giving them their space, and it all spells out one thing. The problem is, it’s been so long, Dean has been so hot and cold, and Castiel just has no fucking clue which end is up anymore. For the moment though, it doesn’t really matter. He remembers at the last second that they’re on camera, that they have an audience of millions, and as such, he lets Dean sweep him into his arms without protest. 

When Dean pulls back, it’s with Castiel’s head cupped in his hands, their foreheads pressed together. “I love you,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” Dean’s words are vague enough that even if either of their mics picks up his voice over the cheering roar of the studio audience they probably won’t seem strange, and that’s something. Castiel lets himself be kissed, holds the front of Dean’s shirt in tight, balled fists like he’s holding onto his very last bit of sanity. And when Dean leans back again, it’s extremely hard for Castiel not to buy what he’s selling. For now, for _this moment,_ perhaps it’s better that he does. 

As Dean leads him by the hand over to the couch, Castiel’s vision blurs again and he blinks his eyes in what he hopes is a discrete way, something that can be passed off as tears of joy, if he’s lucky. They settle down next to each other with clasped hands resting on Dean’s thigh, and Jimmy’s looking at them both with big doe eyes, his chin perched on folded hands, elbows on his desk. 

“You two are disgustingly adorable, but I assume you already know that. Aren’t they?” He motions to the audience, and they all start yelling and clapping once again. Dean waves them off with a pretend-grumpy scowl, but it fades pretty quickly to an embarrassed blush that he does a terrible job of hiding. Castiel stares, he can’t help it, he hasn’t seen Dean this sincere and honest in… _years._

Jimmy goes easy on them and doesn’t take the mile-wide opening they’ve given him to go off-script. Because of that and Dean’s hand wrapped securely around his own, Castiel manages to make it through the rest of the interview relatively unscathed. He thinks he does a pretty okay job of controlling his expressions, is relatively sure none of his answers are going to circle back and leave him with egg on his face. 

During another commercial break, Jimmy actually checks in with them both, his own expression genuine and no longer ultra-professional when he asks if they’re okay. Even when both Castiel and Dean assure him that they’re fine, he presses, questioning whether they might want to try and film a less _“heavy,”_ as he puts it, entrance for Castiel. 

The two of them exchange a glance and Jimmy calls a producer over who has clearly been in his ear the whole time. Dean mutters quietly to Castiel that he’s sure they’re worried about overstepping their contract and getting sued by Dean’s camp, but that’s production, and he’s not actually worried. Castiel thinks they just seem nice. Nicer than they have to be, anyway. In the end, the footage is sent off to Sam for approval and after he, in turn, calls Dean and Cas, the three of them agree that it comes off emotional, but impactful, just the way they were hoping for. Castiel voices that he doubts he has it in him to do it over again and not come off stiff and awkward, so the original it is. 

All that’s left is to shoot Jimmy’s sign-off and “thank you for coming”, and then they’re free. Castiel’s having somewhat of an out-of-body experience by the time they’re each shaking Jimmy’s hand and exiting the set to loud applause from the crowd, but he manages to wave and smile. Dean keeps a tight hold on his left hand as they’re escorted down the hall, only reluctantly letting go when the door to the dressing room shuts behind them. 

“Cas,” Dean starts, but Castiel holds up a hand, making his way over to the table hosting a giant gift basket displayed on top. Next to the basket is a bucket of chilled beer—Margiekugels, per Dean’s request—and Castiel pops the top off of one using the side of the table, chugging half of it without pause. He continues to ignore Dean while he sits at the lighted mirror and starts to remove the makeup on his face and eventually Dean gets the hint, moving around him to do the same. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, considering Dean’s dislike for open communication, he doesn’t push. 

In fact, Dean doesn’t say another single word to Castiel. Not while they clean up, not outside 30 Rock where they engage again with fans, and not on the tense ride back to the hotel. It’s not until Benny’s eyeing them with concern from the other side of the closing door that Dean finally speaks.

“We’ve got an hour until we need to head to the airport,” he says, but Castiel just stares. No fucking way is he going to make this easy on Dean. He’s not even sure he wants to _have_ this conversation at all, not when he’s less than sure of what Dean is going to say. “Give me a minute,” Dean sighs, dropping his phone onto the table and heading for the bathroom with his hand in his hair. “Just…” He holds out a pacifying hand, even though Castiel is just standing there, not arguing with his request. “One minute.” 

Almost the second the bathroom door clicks closed behind Dean, his phone buzzes on the table. Having no idea when he became this person, Castiel barely hesitates before swooping in to snoop. It’s Charlie, and it’s another cryptic text that, in his opinion, does _not_ look good for Dean.

_Charlie: I love you Dean, but you’re being a real clenched butthole about all of this. You can’t keep doing these things and leaving Cas in the dark. I’d threaten to tell him myself, but somehow I can’t imagine that would help._

Reading the message over twice, Castiel seethes. Further proof that Dean _is_ exploiting him, _them,_ and everything they’ve been through together for some kind of PR boost. Obviously, he doesn't even think Castiel’s smart enough to figure it out, which is just insulting. The lock to the bathroom clicks open and the doorknob turns and Castiel is ready. 

Dean looks a little startled when he emerges to see Castiel holding up his phone and his face closes off as he puts his hand out to get it back. Instead of just handing it over, Castiel chucks it at him, harder than necessary. "Have you been leaking our trip’s itinerary to fans somehow?"

“What?” To his credit, Dean looks genuinely confused. “Cas, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t _lie_ to me, Dean. I saw the message from Charlie, and the one before that, about the things you aren’t telling me. I’m not an idiot, despite what you seem to think. I _knew_ it all seemed too coincidental to be—”

With a bitter laugh, Dean cuts him off mid-sentence. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He stares. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me? You see… and you thought…” Dean tips his head back and laughs again, but he’s clearly furious. Tossing his phone onto the table, he pulls out a chair and sinks down into it, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I don’t know why I’m even surprised. This is _exactly_ why you and me didn’t work out.”

“Because you sold me out every chance you got?” 

“Because you _always_ think the worst of me!” Dean barks another laugh and slumps back into his chair, staring up at the ceiling as Castiel recoils. “Not to even _start_ on how fucked up it is that you went through my phone.” 

“I didn’t _go through_ your phone,” Castiel replies defensively, using air quotes that Dean would normally make fun of, but he’s clearly not in the mood. 

“Semantics,” Dean says with a dismissive wave.

“And I don’t always think the worst of you,” Castiel continues. “That’s… _gaslighting._ It completely removes your role in _why_ I might jump to less than savory conclusions about your behavior.” 

“I’m not responsible for you not having faith in me,” Dean shoots back, finally sitting up and making eye contact. “You say you love me but you sure don’t act like it, Cas.”

“That’s hardly fair…”

Dean gets up from his chair and starts to pace. “You always want to make me out to be the bad guy. Dean cheated on me, Dean left me alone, Dean didn’t _try_ hard enough, blah, blah—”

“You _did_ do all of those things!”

“Yea?” Dean snaps, whirling around and stalking up to Castiel, stopping less than a foot away from his face. His eyes are hard and fiery and Castiel’s struggling to keep up with the fact that Dean even _has_ these strong feelings, has apparently kept them buried for a while now. He normally does such a good job of pretending he doesn't care. “Maybe I did, but what about _you?_ I got lost and you gave up on me! You were supposed to pull me back, Cas. Keep me grounded.”

Blinking a little and stepping back with a hand to his chest, Castiel shakes his head. “That’s—you can’t put that on me. In what way is that fair?” 

Clearly frustrated, Dean shoves both hands into his hair and clenches them before sinking down onto the bed. “I’m not— _ugh_. I didn’t say that it was _fair,_ you gotta get off of that. I’m saying it’s what I _needed_ from you. I… Cas, I _needed_ you to hold me down, remind me of what’s real, what’s important, and you didn’t. You left me to figure it out on my own, you pulled away when I needed you most. I ain’t sayin’ I made the right decisions, or even any good ones. But _what else_ was I supposed to do? I needed you and you weren’t there. I thought you knew.” 

“I didn’t,” Castiel replies, stunned. “I just thought… I thought that you were done with me. That you’d outgrown me, or at least my usefulness to you.” Dean is silent, staring down at his hands, and Castiel’s irritation, along with his sadness, grows. “I don’t feel good about this Dean,” he says, emotion creeping into his voice that he wishes he’d been more careful to hold at bay. “This back and forth we’re doing, it’s not healthy for either of us. If you don’t want me—” Castiel’s voice cracks, and he swallows heavily. Dean just barely looks up from his shoes. He tries again. “If you don’t want me, then I think it’s time for me to move on.” 

Still, Dean doesn’t answer, so Castiel blows out a frustrated breath and starts shoving his clothes and personal items into their joint suitcase. This plane ride home should be a blast. Maybe Benny will switch seats with him. Castiel’s willing to sit in Coach if it means not being crammed up next to Dean thirty thousand feet in the air for six hours. “Fine,” he grits out, zipping the suitcase and hauling it vertical. It doesn’t look as if there are too many of Dean’s personal items laying around—he’ll just have to put whatever’s left in his carry-on bag. “I’ll be in the lobby.” 

Castiel gets all the way to the hotel room door before Dean’s voice stops him. “Were you not at the show just now?” Fully knowing he should keep going, Castiel reluctantly lets his hand drop from the handle and turns around, one eyebrow raised as Dean gets to his feet, visibly upset. “Were you not listening? I told the whole goddamn world how I feel about you, Cas. You just don't fucking believe me."

“I don’t understand, Dean,” Castiel says with a sigh. “And I can’t keep doing this. Fine, let’s pretend that what you said is true. You love me. Then why won’t you tell _me?_ Announcing it to the world is not the same thing. You want to discuss things that aren’t _fair?_ Alright, perhaps you do still harbor feelings. But you don’t love me enough, at least not enough to put me first. Or to refrain from cheating on me.”

“ _Me?_ What about Inias?”

“Inias gave me _one_ blowjob, Dean, that you happened to walk in on. You’d been gone for almost a year when that happened! What did you expect me to do, sit around in a chastity belt and pine while you fuck everything else under the sun?” 

“Fine,” Dean says curtly. “I deserve that. I told you, I’ve made some bad choices. But I didn’t cheat first. Amara kissed _me,_ you know. I never lied about that. She was practically stalking me, Cas, you just happened to walk in when she made her move and you took the bait. She _wanted_ you to react that way! I didn’t ask for any of that, I didn’t _ask_ for you to believe I’d toss you aside so easily. You, on the other hand...” He folds his arms and raises his eyebrows and now Castiel is officially lost.

“Dean…” Castiel narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side. “I never cheated on you. If we’re circling back to Inias again, you and I were separated.”

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “Not Inias. _Meg.”_ Castiel stares blankly and Dean huffs a sigh that sounds a little… embarrassed? That can’t be right. “Don’t think I never noticed. The way you two are always touching. How comfortable you are together. The way she always knows what you want, what you need. That’s the kind of thing…” Dean swallows and averts his eyes. “Fuck. That was _my_ job. Or, it used to be.” 

Speechless with disbelief, Castiel barks a laugh and Dean’s eyes narrow. “Dean,” he says, astonished. “Meg and I have _never_ slept together. She’s my personal assistant, it’s her _job_ to know me inside and out. Jesus Christ, Dean. This is—this is _precisely_ what I’m talking about! You wouldn’t know intimacy and trust if it smacked you in the face. I’m _gay,_ Dean, and Meg is happily married, not that you’ve ever bothered to ask. She’s my _friend,_ my confidant, and she’s filled in the empty spaces for me since _you left them._ I love her, but we’re not romantically entangled, we never have been.” Castiel pauses and then relents. “Well, there was _one_ night when we’d both been drinking tequila and I had some sort of bi-curious moment where I wondered what kissing a girl was like, but Dean, that was fleeting and… you were long gone.” 

“Oh,” Dean replies meekly, suddenly looking small. 

“Dean,” Castiel presses. “Did you leave me for good because you thought I was already cheating on _you?_ With _Meg?”_

Dean’s eyes are wide as he licks his lips and picks at his nails. “Um.” 

“Oh my _god.”_

The reprieve from fighting is short as Dean collects himself, quickly locating the righteous anger he’d lost track of for a moment there. “Alright, but that doesn’t change anything, Cas. Not really. I felt that way for a reason. We were drifting apart. You stopped caring about me, stopped checking in, stopped being the support system we promised we’d be to each other.” 

That fires Castiel up all over again and the next thing he knows, he’s yelling and Dean’s yelling back, each of them seemingly intent on being louder than the other. Any hope of finding common ground and actually hearing what the other has to say swiftly gets taken off the table. At that point, the entire fight is reduced to a shattered mess of shouted arguments that are each increasingly less coherent than the last. 

Before long, both Castiel and Dean are nothing but red-faced blobs of quivering anger, swapping insults and arguing about trivialities that hardly matter in the least. Who fucked up first, whose fault a particular inane conflict comes back to. From there they circle around endlessly, trading blame and bickering about whose mistakes are _worse_ and who left who stranded, whose fault it is that they’re in this spot to begin with. 

Eventually, though, the screaming and insult-exchanging grow tiresome, draining, and the fighting begins to shift back in the direction of an actual conversation. The sharp words and shared admissions between them remain raw and painful, but at least they’re starting to come from a place of honesty and genuine need to be heard, not just an instinctive desire to lash out and cause the other as much hurt as possible. Misconceptions and misunderstandings alike come spilling out, along with a bunch of other longstanding, known issues that remain all too real from both sides. 

They argue so loudly and for so long that the light changes outside and Castiel realizes they must have missed their flight home. But despite the harsh words and painful truths spilling from both of their lips, for the first time in a long time, neither of them calls it quits. 

When all is said and done, the argument peters out, from lack of further content or sheer exhaustion, Castiel isn’t entirely sure. Dean’s chest heaves and Castiel’s eyes burn, both of their voices becoming scratchy and their tones pained. But they _stay,_ and they keep talking and finally, when Castiel is so weary he feels like he might fall asleep on his feet, persistent headache he’s been fighting for an hour blooming into full force, the mood in the room starts to change. 

With all of their dirty laundry aired, every mistaken belief they’ve held close out there in the open for the other to pick apart and tear into, there’s only so far they can go before it’s only natural they’d circle back to... _what comes next?_

Slumped tiredly with his legs spread and his head tipped back, Dean’s once again collapsed in the chair by the table. Castiel’s sitting opposite from him on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his temples with the tips of his fingers. He blinks long against the throbbing in his skull. “So… Lisa was really just a ploy?”

Dean sighs and nods, the hand in his hair massaging his scalp. “Really. I mean, not on her part, she did her best to lock me down, but yea. I thought she might be good for my rep with the news coming down about us, but we were never serious. She’s a nice girl, way too good for me.” 

“On that, we agree,” Castiel says, and somehow, they both crack small smiles. There’s silence for a moment and then, “And what about me, Dean? Am I too good for you? Or am I not good enough?” 

“Shit, Cas,” Dean sighs tiredly. “You’ve always been too good for me.” His little smile quirks up a bit more, and Castiel ducks his head shyly. “I love you, Cas,” Dean says softly and it’s so sudden, so unexpected and Castiel is _so fucking tired_ that his tears spill over without his consent. He covers his face and waits to speak until he’s fought them back again, but when he opens his eyes, Dean is kneeling in front of him, for _once_ not avoiding eye contact.

“Fuck.” Castiel breathes out raggedly and reaches to lay a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder, but neither of them moves to close the gap any more than that. 

“What are we doing here, Cas?” Dean asks softly. 

“I… I don’t think we’d be arguing if we both didn’t feel… that there was a point to it.” Castiel’s cautious, careful in admitting that terrifying truth out loud, but someone has to say it. Eventually, they’re going to have to call Sam and have their trip plans rescheduled. It’s a good thing they’d kept the room for a second night as a place to crash after the taping of the show or they’d also have had angry hotel staff knocking on the door hours ago. 

Distantly, Castiel wonders what Benny is doing, why he didn’t come to get them. On second thought, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt this particular fight, either. He turns his attention back to Dean, who’s looking up at him so sincerely. “Can we save this?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean replies honestly. “Do you want to try?” 

“ _God,_ Dean.” Castiel sniffs, looking to the ceiling as his eyes fill up again against his will. He wipes his sleeve across his face. “I feel like I’ve said this a million times, but maybe I never said it _to_ you. I was _never_ not willing to try.” He pauses, pushing his sweaty palm against his jeans. Dean’s hand takes it, sliding their fingers past each other so that they’re intertwined. “If we’re going to do this,” Castiel continues, a little shaky, “We should stop sleeping together. At least for the time being. Until we know…”

Castiel’s not sure what he expected, but Dean doesn’t protest, just nods and brings Castiel’s fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. “Agreed,” he says. “Friends?” 

“Friends,” Castiel echoes. 

They negotiate a bit more from there, deciding that when they return to L.A., Castiel will go back to the house in the Hills and Dean to Malibu. After that, they can visit, start to get to know each other again, and yes, see a marriage counselor. And then Dean offers another suggestion, about which Castiel is surprised, but not displeased.

“We’ll do the rest of the shoot in the Hills,” Dean says decisively. “No honeymoon location bullshit. We’re not in a place for it and it’s not fair to us. If Vanity Fair doesn’t want the photos the way we’re taking them, then fuck ‘em.” 

“Fuck ‘em,” Castiel agrees faintly, and Dean seems to notice that he’s struggling to stay focused (or even upright) at this point.

“I’m beat too,” Dean says, full of understanding. “Listen, get comfortable. I’m gonna go check-in with Benny and call Sam. I’ll take care of all the details, alright? You can count on me.” 

“I want to,” Castiel replies, holding Dean’s eye contact for a beat too long and making him flush. Dean squeezes his hand and smiles before letting go and disappearing out of the room. 

Once Dean is gone, Castiel unzips the luggage he’d packed what feels like days ago and finds some comfortable sleeping pants and a t-shirt. Shuffling into the bathroom, he turns the shower on hot and steps in before it’s fully heated up, still in a daze. Castiel scrubs the entire day, the fight, all of it from his skin and his hair and then stands there, letting the water beat down on his back, soothing the exhausted ache in his muscles. By the time he gets out the mirror is completely fogged, the air is thick despite the fan, and Castiel is extremely pink from head to toe, even with his tan. 

Wrapped up in his soft sleeping clothes, Castiel stumbles out to find Dean in his own pajamas, sitting up against the headboard of one of the beds with a greasy paper bag in his lap. “Hey,” he says.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies carefully as he drapes his towel over a chair. “Is everything sorted out?”

“Yep,” Dean says, nodding and clearing his throat. “Benny had actually already called Sam, had him change our flights to tomorrow morning. And Sam was cool with the change in plans. Well, no, he wasn’t,” Dean corrects. “But, he came around. For starters, we’re pushing the shoot for two weeks. I know it’s not a lot, but it’s something. I thought… maybe it’s at least enough time for us to figure out if there’s something here to save.” He looks so hopeful, so familiar and reminiscent of the Dean Castiel used to know, that for once, he actually thinks it might be possible. He nods and manages a smile.

With a low hum, Dean turns his attention to the stained bag in front of him and rummages inside. “Burgers and fries,” he offers hopefully, and Castiel takes the bag when he holds it up after Dean’s removed his own items. A burger does sound heavenly, but what he’s dying for is— “And tea,” Dean continues, “Orange tea with extra honey.” Stunned, Castiel barely manages a thank you as he takes the lidded cup thrust out towards him.

“This was very thoughtful, Dean,” he finally says, taking a seat on his own bed and sipping gratefully. The hot liquid soothes his still-angry throat and Castiel closes his eyes, relishing the sensation. “ _Very_ thoughtful.”

“Yea, well,” Dean deflects. “You said I don’t know what you need. You’re wrong.” Castiel smiles into the lid of his cup and lets Dean off the hook. They eat their dinners in silence until Dean gets fidgety and turns on the TV, flipping aimlessly with his free hand, the other full of fries. He pauses when their faces appear on the screen next to the _Tonight Show’_ s logo, glancing over briefly at Castiel who shakes his head in horror. “Thank fuck,” Dean mutters, quickly flipping past NBC and settling on a rerun of some ancient sitcom. After a quick check to see that Castiel’s done eating, he pulls the switch for the lamp on the nightstand, the only light left on in the room besides the television, plunging the space into relative darkness.

Castiel doesn’t protest, snuggling down into his pillow, eyes already heavy. This day has really taken its toll on him. He hears Dean setting an alarm on his phone and the low background noise of a canned laugh track and starts to doze. Castiel’s nearly asleep when he feels a warm hand on his forearm, which is sticking out across the bed. Opening his eyes and blinking up blearily, Dean’s face comes into focus, staring down at him and illuminated eerily in the reflected fluorescent blues of the sitcom. 

“I know we said…” Dean trails off and clears his throat. “In the interest of, you know, honesty and… communication and shit, I’m, uh…” He scratches his head and looks away, embarrassed. “Nevermind. ‘M sorry,” he mumbles, turning abruptly to retreat back to his own bed, but Castiel reaches out and catches his wrist.

“Dean,” he says, pulling him in and down onto the mattress without hesitation. Dean lets out a pained little moan and burrows into Castiel’s chest immediately. “Just for tonight,” Castiel murmurs. “I need it too.” Dean nods, face still buried in Castiel’s shirt, and they settle down together, limbs wrapped tight. Despite his exhaustion, Castiel stays awake just a little while longer, if only to hear Dean’s soft snores vibrating against his skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.................
> 
> the song is Tragedy + Time by [Rise Against](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2YgwN6P_7E).


	8. The Deep End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a lot like learning to swim. Scary, especially if you insist on jumping right into the deep end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch... thank you all for your comments and kudos!! If i'm slow these past few days, my ENTIRE house has the flu, me included. It's been rough. The last chapter will be up as soon as Sunny's art is finished. :-D
> 
> SPOILER CW: brief, accidental near-drowning episode.

The flight back is uneventful (and sexless, though there is some platonic hand-squeezing when Dean’s anxiety flares up at one point). The tension between the two of them is still palpable, but it’s shifted. It’s no longer uncomfortable and painful, more anticipatory than anything else. When Dean keeps a hand on the small of Castiel’s back as they walk through the airport, he’s not quite as twisted up about it as he used to be. He doesn’t feel so guilty or conflicted for relaxing into Dean’s side, for slipping their fingers together and not letting go at the first available opportunity. 

And likewise, Dean has stopped averting his eyes so consistently. When he finds Castiel looking back, he smiles softly or winks, or runs a thumb along the outside of Castiel’s hand. But most importantly, he holds Castiel’s gaze, stares back into his eyes the way he used to when they were first dating, first together, and Dean wasn’t afraid of people—of Castiel—knowing how he felt. It’s a relief that doesn’t cease to continue washing over Castiel, not until they’re out on the sidewalk leading away from baggage claim and there are two cars waiting. 

“I’ll text you,” Dean says, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a brush off. All the same, Castiel wonders if they’re making the right choice, going their separate ways like this. It’s practical, sure, for him to head back to the Hills and for Dean to return to Malibu, but is it _wise?_ Once they’re no longer together, will Dean’s insecurities get the best of him? Might he change his mind about starting over with Castiel after all? It makes Castiel’s own anxiety flare, probably not much differently than Dean had felt on the plane, but it’s out of place and there’s no reason for Dean to notice.

Except, he _does_ notice, dropping his bag down to the sidewalk and framing Castiel’s face with his hands. “What’s wrong?” Dean’s eyes are kind and full of genuine concern, probing Castiel’s as if he thinks he’ll find the answers by simply looking hard enough. 

“It’s nothing,” Castiel deflects, but Dean raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Thought we weren’t going to do that.” 

With a sigh, Castiel allows his hands to drop to Dean’s waist, tentative, unsure if what they’re doing is really within the boundaries they talked about. _Hell with it._ He winds arms around Dean’s waist and pulls him close, dropping his face to Dean’s neck and breathing him in. “Sorry,” he mutters when Dean stiffens a little beneath him before relaxing and reciprocating, his hand in Castiel’s hair, grounding him. “I’m afraid this will be the last time I’ll see you,” Castiel blurts out, surprising himself. 

“No,” Dean replies and his grip tightens. “We’re gonna do better than this. Alright? I promise. I’ll text you, and we’ll see each other. Tomorrow, okay? Dinner, maybe. We could hit that tapas place you like.” Pulling back a little, Castiel reaches up to touch Dean’s cheek but hesitates, eventually retracting his hand before it makes contact with Dean’s stubbled skin. In response, Dean narrows his eyes a little, still so close as he catches Castiel’s wrist, pulling it back up to his face. Castiel lets him, but he smirks a little.

“You know that tapas place has been closed for almost a year?” 

Wincing, Dean pulls away a little and Castiel regrets saying anything at all, even if it was just a joke. It’s still a reminder of everything that’s gone by the wayside, everything that’s still wrong between them. That, and the fact that he can see people starting to gather nearby, pulling out their phones and raising them to take pictures and presumably, video, breaks the moment. “I don’t always notice them,” Dean admits, cocking his head towards the lookie-loos. “They’re always there, you know? Like background noise. I never realized what it might look like to you when I don’t see them.” 

“I’d better go,” Castiel says reluctantly, sliding out of Dean’s grip and stepping towards the car that’s for him. At the last second, Dean tightens his grasp around Castiel’s wrist, stopping him from getting more than two feet away. He actually trips a little, which makes Dean smirk when Castiel turns around to see what his issue is.

“Come back,” Dean says softly, and it’s obvious what he wants, but the cameras are still there and it churns Castiel’s stomach. He glances quickly over at the small crowd and it’s like the existence of their audience suddenly registers for Dean, too. To Castiel’s surprise, he takes the hint, opening the door to his own car. “Get in,” he says.

“Dean,” Castiel complains. “The traffic… I want to go home.” 

“Just trust me,” Dean says, clapping Castiel on the shoulder and stepping around him to speak to each of the drivers. Sighing, Castiel slides into the back of Dean’s car and waits, his carry-on resting heavily in his lap. A minute later, Dean’s sliding into the other side of the seat, Benny in the front, and then the driver hops in, taking off without further conversation. They only move maybe a thousand feet, pulling past the terminals and over onto the emergency shoulder. “There,” Dean says smugly and before Castiel can protest he’s out of the car, walking around and opening his door like he’s the chauffeur. 

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel steps out and lets Dean reel him back in, chest-to-chest. “It’s true there are no cameras here,” he agrees. “But I thought we weren’t… you know.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Do y’not want to kiss me, Cas?” 

“I-I didn’t say that,” Castiel stammers, suddenly flustered, and just like that, Dean turns the charm back on full force, like he’s been waiting for permission. 

“Stop me if I’m over the line,” he says as he slips an arm around Castiel’s waist. “But I just thought, you know, we should do what feels right. We can make it up as we go.” He shrugs, the wind ruffling his hair as cars whiz carelessly by not ten feet away from where they stand. 

It’s Castiel that leans in this time, making a choice that he’s not entirely sure he won’t regret, but Dean is right. They can’t live the rest of their lives running scared from each other or their past mistakes. And he _does_ want to kiss Dean goodbye, so… _fuck it_. 

The actual kiss isn’t very long, but it’s warm and comforting and _not_ undercut by the sour tang of whiskey and drunken idiocy, like the last time their lips touched. It’s no surprise when it’s over far too soon, but they can’t very well make out on the side of a highway for long. _Can they? No,_ the rational side of Castiel’s brain concludes, while the irrational side considers throwing in the towel on this whole _separate houses_ thing and just going home to jump in bed with Dean right now. _Jesus Christ,_ he needs a chaperone. 

Nearly tripping over his own feet in an attempt to keep his eyes on Dean, Castiel makes his way to his own car. With his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth, Dean watches him go, eyes crinkled in a smile, arm resting on the top of his car door. He looks… hopeful. Happy, even. Dean waves until the car carrying Castiel pulls away from the curb and turns out of his sight. 

A drive that should have been an hour from LAX to the Hills turns into two, thanks to some atrocious traffic. By the time the hired car is pulling into his drive, it’s two in the afternoon and Castiel’s more than ready to finally be free. He supposes he should be grateful for the three hours he’s gotten back thanks to the East/West Coast time difference, but he’s mostly just hungry and unsure whether he’s late for lunch or early for dinner. 

The Tuscan-style mansion Castiel calls home sits at the end of a tan brick paver driveway that matches the exterior stucco on the house. It’s surrounded by a thick grove of trees that makes it look and feel much farther from the hustle and bustle of the city (and from the rest of the houses on the street) than it actually is. The sight of his home has always made Castiel breathe a little easier, feel a little freer, his haven from everything that’s wrong with L.A. and the world in general. As he fumbles with his keys, suitcase catching on the pavers behind him, Castiel can’t wait to get inside and revel in simply being in _his_ own space. 

But when he unlocks the door and steps inside, disarming the beeping alarm system to the left of the door, Castiel is left feeling… lacking. The house is warm and welcoming as usual, but its open, airy spaces suddenly just seem empty. Doing his best to pass that discomfort off as simple adjustment to not having a million people buzzing around him for the first time in over a week, Castiel hauls his things up to the master bedroom and starts to unpack. 

The feeling follows. It rears its head at the strangest of times, like when he glances at his king-sized bed or drops his toothbrush back into its holder all by its lonesome. Even the wrap-around balcony outside the master that Castiel usually adores hanging out on looks strangely uninviting, with no one here to share it with. The whole vibe is unsettling, and he can’t quite figure it out. Castiel’s never minded being alone, in fact, he usually craves solitude, especially after being forced to interact with others for prolonged periods of time. 

Back downstairs, Castiel finds a note stuck to his fridge. 

_Stocked your fridge, figured you wouldn’t be up to grocery shopping. Turned the heater on in the pool for you too. Love you, call me. -Meg_

Castiel grabs a yogurt and settles down onto his favorite sofa in the living room, the one that faces the wall of french doors that look out over the pool. He picks up a book left on the coffee table the morning he and Dean had gone to mediation and opens it to the tattered bookmark holding his place. For the better part of half an hour he tries to get lost in it, but the only thing he loses is his place in the text. Repeatedly. After re-reading the same paragraph four times and still not absorbing anything in it, Castiel gives up, tossing the book back onto the table and sighing heavily. He tips his head back on the arm of the couch and stares up at the lofted ceiling, tracing the stained knots of the wooden beams running across with his eyes. 

_This is wallowing,_ Castiel chastizes his brain, but he can’t quite figure out how to shake himself out of this funk. His eyes are drawn to the pool and he remembers Meg’s note. A swim sounds like as good an idea as any, and he could certainly use some exercise. _Yes, that’s good,_ he thinks. _Blow off some steam, surely that will help._

Instead of bothering with a swimsuit, Castiel strips in his living room and leaves his clothes in a pile on the patio. There’s no one here, why shouldn’t he be naked if he wants to be? He strides confidently across the lawn and dives into the pool without hesitation. Over the past week, the first signs of fall have really started to settle into Southern California, not that they have anything on the cool breezes and nighttime lows of New York City. Even still, Castiel’s grateful that Meg turned on the heater. It’s not nearly as much fun to swim when your nuts are trying to climb back inside your body and your skin more closely resembles bubble wrap than anything human. 

As it is, the clear liquid enveloping his body is warm and welcoming, and Castiel would groan with relief if it wouldn’t mean swallowing a mouthful of water. He pours all of his frustration, emotion, and general restlessness into kicking and stroking as hard and as fast as he can. The result is so therapeutic that he stops even trying to count laps; just keeps swimming. Eventually, his lungs start to protest the increasingly prolonged periods without air and his arms and legs are screaming. 

It’s pure bliss, and despite his body’s signals, Castiel doesn’t want to stop. He’s always been athletic, muscles carved from running and swimming and toned with free weights when he has the time, and he’s never struggled with pushing his limits. 

But perhaps Castiel’s underestimated the toll that the stress of the past week has taken on him, because this time is different. It makes sense, that his body is still recovering, that he hasn’t been caring for it, _fueling_ it in the way he normally does. His sleep schedule has been off, he’s been drinking more than exercising, and he’s been eating all sorts of things he normally wouldn’t consider. Plus, with all the traveling he’s certainly at _least_ a little bit dehydrated. Unfortunately, Castiel is too busy enjoying the pleasant sting and burn his aggressive swimming has produced, and he doesn’t exactly stop to consider all of these factors.

Which is why he’s unprepared for the cramp that appears suddenly in his lower back and travels quickly down his glutes and the entirety of his right leg. The whole thing happens in an instant. One second he’s cutting happily through the deep end of the pool and the next he’s floundering, paralyzed by debilitating pain and then fear. Castiel goes under. It’s unavoidable, his entire right side feels like it’s seized up, immobile and on fire at the same time. The pain renders him useless, unable to swim or tread water as the contorted, abused muscle refuses to relax and ease up no matter which way he twists and turns and tries to relieve it. 

As the water closes over his head, Castiel fights to push himself back towards the flickering sunlight. He struggles fruitlessly, his whole body at war with itself, his fingertips the last thing to disappear beneath the glassy surface. There’s no moment where his life flashes before his eyes, no coherent thought or wish or prayer other than the intense desire to _live,_ to survive, and the searing pain that’s fighting against him, sucking him down at every turn. A spark of furious agony makes his vision white out momentarily, and then something changes.

The water around him is disturbed, rippling like the current in a river or the undertow in an ocean; _someone is in the pool with him._ A strong arm comes from behind and wraps around Castiel’s chest, hauling him back, back, and _up._ He breaks the surface with a gasp closely followed by a cry, still arching and spasming from the relentless cramping pain. The arm only tightens its hold as they reach the shallow end and then he’s being dragged to the stairs, slung somewhat recklessly across them by his rescuer as he moans.

 _“Cas,”_ a hand slaps at his face, trying to get his attention, but Castiel’s still trying to get his bearings. Breathing and coughing and shoving his foot underneath him to try and get some leverage to break the cramp are impossible things to order by importance. “Where is it? Cas, where is it?” 

“Back,” Castiel manages to grit out. “Leg.” He’s hauled up and into a still-clothed lap, held fast against a sopping wet t-shirt over a muscled chest while hands knead the skin of his lower back. Impossibly, the cramp starts to ease and Castiel begins to be able to breathe easily once more. 

“Fuckin’ A,” Dean mutters lowly, and Castiel doesn’t have the brainpower to parse out all of the emotions in his voice. He clings to Dean shamelessly and Dean doesn’t let go, working the muscles of his back and thigh between his hands, even after the cramp is mostly gone. “We gotta… you gotta drink some juice or something,” Dean says eventually, but all he really does is wrap arms around Castiel’s back, palms flat against his skin and holding him tight. “Fuck,” Dean says again, his face dropping to bury in Castiel’s neck. “Cas, fuck.” 

As oxygen returns to his brain, the totality of what’s just happened really starts to hit Castiel and it makes him breathless all over again, for a completely different reason. Distraught, he whimpers and tightens his grip on Dean’s wet shirt, nails scraping against his skin as he does. “Okay,” Dean says, patting the space between Castiel’s shoulder blades and fitting a hand around the back of his neck. “Alright. You’re alright. C’mon.” 

Dean mostly drags Castiel to standing and the two of them slip-slide on the pool stairs trying to step out without letting go of each other. It’s probably well enough that Castiel doesn’t even try, he’s pretty sure standing on his own would be a no-go right at this minute. Still weak and shaky, he limps along at Dean’s side, leaning heavily with his arm around Dean’s waist as they move across the lawn. 

Dean dumps him in one of the wicker chairs just outside the sliding glass doors and steps away, only to return a minute later with the blanket Castiel keeps draped over the back of the couch. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, it’s hard not to notice how incredibly chilly the air is, especially since the sun’s gone down behind the trees. 

Casting a grateful glance up at Dean, Castiel wraps himself up just as he starts to shiver. “Hang tight,” Dean tells him before disappearing into the depths of the house. He comes back out a few minutes later with a glass of orange juice, handing it over as he drags the second wicker chair within touching distance. He sits and then springs up again immediately, seemingly just realizing that he, too, is soaking wet. 

Without a second thought, Dean strips down to his boxers and tosses the rest of his dripping clothes aside. They land in a sodden heap on the stone patio and Dean winces as they hit the ground with a wet slap. Even from several feet away Castiel can see Dean’s skin goose pimpling from shoulder to wrist and all down his legs. 

“Go find some clothes,” Castiel urges him a little hoarsely, tipping his head towards the house. “My room.” 

“No way,” Dean replies without hesitation. “I ain’t leaving you alone, not yet. You didn’t inhale any water or anything, did you? Do we need to be on the way to the emergency room, or what?” 

Castiel shakes his head no. “I don’t think so. I’m fine, just..” He trails off, looking up at where Dean’s still looming over him, arms crossed over his wet chest, a look of concern that anyone who doesn’t know him better might mistake for anger on his face. “Dean,” Castiel says softly. “If you hadn’t been there…”

A pained look flashes through Dean’s eyes but he shakes it off quickly. “Drink,” Dean commands, touching the bottom of Castiel’s glass to encourage it towards his mouth. “Juice will help with the come-down. Soon as you think you’re okay to walk, we’re going upstairs and I’m tucking you into bed. We’ll order food or something, but I’m staying with you. No buts,” he says gruffly. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Castiel mutters, but he’s pleased he won’t need to pretend not to want Dean here. He drinks his juice quickly and considers how it’s not just his body that’s weak, shaken. Emotionally, he’s a wreck. It’s hard to even focus too much on what could have happened, if Dean hadn’t shown up out of the blue like he did. _Which, actually…_ “Why _are_ you here, anyway?” 

Dean’s expression shifts to one of surprise and then his cheeks color with embarrassment. _Interesting._ “Well, you know how Sam’s wife is pregnant, right? Anyway, she’s stuck in bed right now so he only hung out long enough to make sure you and me weren’t trying to bail on the whole project. Everyone else was already gone by the time I got home. Since we pushed the shoot, wasn’t any reason for them to stick around.” Dean shrugs and averts his eyes. “House felt really big all of a sudden. Lonely. I dunno, it’s stupid.” He scuffs his bare toe against a paver. “Normally, this would be the part where I’d offer to get out of your hair, but I gotta tell ya, I’m not sure I’m up to faking it right now. I don’t wanna leave, and not just ‘cause your dumb ass almost drowned.” 

Despite the circumstances, Castiel laughs and that makes Dean crack a smile too. Draining the last of his juice, Castiel pushes to his feet and finds that he’s much steadier than he was, though the offer of bed and Dean waiting on him still sounds blissful, for more than one reason. As soon as he’s vertical, Dean dips in under the blanket to steady him with an arm around the waist, guiding them both up the stairs with a watchful eye. 

As promised, he tucks Castiel into bed and as a bonus, turns on the gas fireplace adorning the far wall of the bedroom. It’s maybe not _quite_ cool enough outside for that, but Castiel’s certainly not complaining. He hides his smile behind the comforter pulled up to his face, a little bit afraid that if Dean sees it, he really will flee. 

Completely shameless, Dean strips off his wet boxers and trades them for a pair of lounge pants from Castiel’s pajama drawer. As he stares, Castiel tries hard not to think too much about the fact that it used to be _their_ pajama drawer. Maybe it will be again. To Castiel’s simultaneous pleasure and chagrin, Dean forgoes a shirt, sitting at Castiel’s feet with his phone out and swiping through. “Glad this sucker was in my jacket pocket at least,” he grunts, presumably thinking about the ruined pair of leather shoes that are currently dripping dry in Castiel’s backyard. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he apologizes. “I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before. I push myself regularly during workouts.” But Dean just shrugs and hands over the phone which is opened to a food delivery app.

“I’m getting Thai,” he declares. “Pick whatever you want.” Castiel scrolls for less than a minute before locating his favorite Indian restaurant and selecting some curry. They complete the order and Dean tosses his phone onto the nightstand. Once again, it sends a pang through Castiel’s chest, the action so familiar it’s painful to see. He scolds himself internally. If he and Dean are ever to move forward, ever going to learn to trust each other again, Castiel _has_ to start letting go of what’s in the past. 

From here on out, he vows to consciously reframe his thoughts. Optimistic instead of pessimistic, for starters. That’s not a memory of something Dean _used_ to do, it’s a sign that Dean is comfortable enough, here and now, to slide back into old habits and old routines. It’s a _relief,_ not a sign of bad things to come. 

As if he can read Castiel’s mind, Dean chooses that moment to crawl forward on his knees until he’s up at the head of the bed, thigh pressed tight against Castiel’s slouched hip. “Can I…?” His hand is on the edge of the comforter and Castiel nods, wide-eyed with anticipation as Dean scoots around to slide in next to him. 

Before he gets comfortable, he reaches over Castiel and grabs the remote for the smart TV, powering it on and navigating straight to Netflix. “Come here,” he says, eyes on the TV screen but arms open and Castiel goes without protest. When they’re reclined back with Castiel tucked into Dean’s side, head in the crook of his neck, Dean selects a silly comedy from the menu and relaxes down into the mattress. 

Almost immediately, he takes up stroking Castiel’s hair and scratching lightly at the back of his neck, something he used to do when they were dating. It’s been a long time since Dean touched him like this, comfort for the sake of comfort and not with the intent to _lead_ him somewhere. It makes Castiel’s breath catch a little in his throat. This is an obvious demonstration that Dean is _serious,_ that he actually does still have feelings for Castiel, that this isn’t all some twisted game or worse, an attempt to get laid. 

“How do you feel?” Dean asks after a while. His hand drifts down to the small of Castiel’s back and rests there, fingers pressing questioningly into the still-sore muscles of his flank.

Castiel clears his throat and nods. “Better,” he says but it comes out rough. Tipping his head up, it’s a shock for Castiel to find Dean already staring down at him, the pull between them suddenly sparking and electric. Dean’s tongue darts out to lick his lips and Castiel wants to look away but is stuck, gaze darting between Dean’s eyes and his mouth. 

Of course, right then is when the doorbell rings, a notification dinging on Dean’s phone that their food is here. Reluctantly, Castiel makes himself pull away and Dean squeezes his wrist before hightailing it out of the room and thumping down the stairs. Castiel flops back on the bed with his hands in his hair and wonders what the fuck he’s doing. He and Dean are supposed to be taking it slow, rebuilding their relationship from the ground up. And yet, if that Postmates dude had been a couple minutes slower, Castiel doubts Dean would have been decent and ready to answer the door so quickly. 

When Dean returns, things go back to normal-platonic between them, at least for the duration of their dinner-in-bed meal. When they’re both full and the trash is cleaned up, Dean fusses over Castiel some more. Even though it’s been hours and the cramps were clearly exercise-induced, Dean insists that Castiel eat a banana and drink some more OJ before he’ll let him go to sleep. 

By the time he’s allowed to lay down and close his eyes, Castiel is exhausted. He’s looking forward to Dean staying with him, though, and somewhat relieved that they didn’t fall back into their normal pitfall of jumping headlong into casual sex after all. But instead of cuddling him close, Dean manhandles Castiel onto his stomach and sets about rubbing his back and shoulders down with some oil Castiel doesn’t recognize. 

Slightly defensively, Dean claims he dug it out of a cabinet in the bathroom and Castiel doesn’t push the issue, mostly because Dean’s hands are _magic._ Castiel’s only disappointed that he’s too drained to stay awake and enjoy the massage for longer, but he drifts off with Dean’s hands on his skin, his lips on his ear, his soft, comforting voice drifting through Castiel’s head. Most importantly of all, Dean actually stays. 

He stays.


	9. Some Kind of Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well, though nothing ever really ends, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am?! Kind of emotional about ending this?! wtf have you all done to me?!?!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the ending, and especially Sunny's UNREAL amazing art and interpretation of that scene (embedded below). Hit Sunny up on [Tumblr](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com/) and squeal directly, if you enjoyed!!! <3 Honestly, I love this art SO much I don't even have words.

From the next morning on, things even out a little bit. Having exercised enough self-control to make it through the night in the same bed without jumping each other’s bones, neither Castiel nor Dean seem anxious to set their relationship back again, tempting as it might be. Instead, they focus on the things they discussed in New York. Spending time together, talking, sharing, building trust and fostering honest communication between them. Castiel’s happy, but he finds himself unable to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

It’s early in the morning eight days after their return from the PR trip (not to mention Castiel’s near-death experience in the pool). The brakes in Castiel’s car screech angrily as he coasts into a parking space near the coffee shop Dean favors, the one they’ve apparently made _their_ spot all over again. He half-expects Dean to be inside already, tucked away in a corner booth with their drinks and more pastries than either of them should be eating, since that’s been his M.O. the last six days in a row. But today he’s waiting, leaning against Baby with a frown on his face as Castiel puts the car in park and gets out. 

“When’s the last time you had that thing serviced?” are the first words out of his mouth.

Making his way towards Dean, Castiel glances back at his vehicle in surprise, unable to remember. “I… don’t know?” he offers and Dean sighs. 

“I’m coming over. That thing doesn’t even sound road-worthy, Cas. You need new brake pads at least, and if the oil is in half as shitty condition then you’re lucky the engine didn’t seize up on your way here.”

“I thought we were going to hit that new Indian place tonight,” Castiel protests. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Dean’s mouth presses together and he narrows his eyes in Castiel’s direction but leans in to give him a kiss anyway. “It’s early,” he says. “We can do both. Anyway, we’ve been out to dinner every night since we got home, ‘cept the first one. Aren’t you sick of… going out… yet?” Dean catches himself but Castiel knows immediately what he meant to say. _Aren’t you sick of me?_

“Not in the least,” Castiel assures him, slipping their fingers together as they walk inside. “But are you sure? I can take it to the shop, I’m sure you have better things to do than—”

“I’m sure,” Dean cuts him off firmly. “It’s important to me. Stuff like this, I wanna put you first, Cas.” It’s true that back when their relationship was new, was _good,_ Dean went out of his way to do things like this for Castiel often and it makes sense that he’d want to reclaim that. Having money and copious job commitments has taken the _need_ for those things away, but they’ve both been guilty of allowing apathy to happen. Castiel can’t help but feel that it’s a good sign Dean is interested in being more hands-on, the way he used to be. “Besides,” Dean continues. “S’good to get my hands dirty every now and then. Helps me keep up my skills.” He winks and Castiel bites back a smile as they step inside the shop. “Use it or lose it.” 

“We could hike later,” Castiel suggests as they get in line, Dean intentionally not removing his sunglasses or ballcap even inside the store. 

“Ugh,” Dean huffs. “ _Again?_ We just hiked like, last Tuesday.” 

“Didn’t you have a good time?” 

“I had a better time at the movies. Hell, I liked the art gallery more, and I don’t even like art. Walking outside for no reason is weird, Cas. It ain’t natural.” Castiel squints and shoots Dean a sidelong glance. But Dean’s already rolling his eyes and squeezing his hand. “But, you know, if you want to.” He knocks his hip into Castiel’s but doesn’t make eye contact, pretending very badly that he’s busy reading the menu board. “I guess I wouldn’t mind coming with.” 

With a warm feeling swirling in his chest, Castiel tugs at Dean’s hand until he looks over and then stands up on his toes to steal a kiss. It lasts a few seconds longer than is perhaps decent for a public display, until the woman behind them clears her throat. _Oops._ The line had moved forward while they were otherwise occupied, and now _everyone_ is staring. A familiar whispering ripples through the shop and Dean sighs. “To go?” Castiel suggests.

“Oh yea,” Dean replies as he steps up to the counter, removing his glasses since his cover is blown anyway and pasting on a wide smile. “Hey there,” he says, and the barista looks like she’s on the verge of passing out, phone already in camera mode in her hand. Castiel sighs and steels himself to play photographer. If there’s one thing about Dean that hasn’t changed, it’s his humility and appreciation for his fans. Castiel supposes they’re just lucky the shop isn’t all that crowded. 

Actually, he should probably be grateful this hasn’t happened at all until today, considering. As he watches, Castiel can already see Dean sliding into his star-persona, and that’s enough to know that he intends to oblige anyone who approaches him. The barista finally gets up the nerve to ask for a selfie, and that’s it, they’re off and running. So much for a quiet breakfast. 

Once they escape from the clutches of all the people inside (and outside) the coffee shop, Dean follows Castiel home in his own car. The fans snap photos as he gets in and drives away with a smile and a wave, and Castiel will _never_ understand why Dean continues to drive something so ostentatious and identifiable when he’s usually attempting to avoid being exactly that. But God forbid anyone bring that up to Dean, oh no. Suggesting he get behind the wheel of anything except for his big black Impala is on the same basic level as casually proposing Dean cut off his arm, and he’s liable to react equally badly to both. 

But Dean _does_ look happy driving his car, and Castiel can’t help but smile as he catches glimpses of him in the rearview mirror. Bopping along to music, singing at what looks like the top of his lungs with an arm occasionally flailing out the window, Dean appears innocent and carefree. It’s an image Castiel’s seen more of over the last week, but not nearly enough overall and he vows to try and bring it out as much as possible in the future. 

When they caravan through the slow-opening iron gates and into the driveway of the house in the Hills, Castiel hits the remote buttons to open all of the garage doors at once. Dean’s tool bench is still in there, untouched, and Castiel wonders if he compiled a new set of tools from scratch for the Malibu house, or if he just hadn’t bothered. Either way, Dean beelines for it, pleased look remaining on his face as he rummages and sorts out his equipment. 

After that first night back, both Castiel and Dean have stuck to staying at their own houses and meeting in public places, so there hasn’t been a whole lot of reclaiming of mutual spaces. Castiel thinks it’s about time they fix that. As an affirmation to how much he likes seeing Dean back in his home, acting like it’s _theirs_ again _,_ he strides up confidently and turns the man around by the shoulder. Dean doesn’t protest, just smirks as Castiel presses him back against the bench to kiss him silly. 

Car issues quickly forgotten, Dean fumbles to drop the wrench in his hand back onto the counter so that his hands are free to grope. His lips drag down the side of Castiel’s face, sucking rough kisses into his neck as Castiel sighs and arches into him without a second thought. He’s deliriously lost, rucking up Dean’s shirt and smoothing hands all across his back with both of Dean’s shoved aggressively down the back of his pants when he opens his eyes suddenly and _really_ realizes that they’re about to fuck in his garage. 

“Dean,” Castiel gasps, pulling away and putting both hands on Dean’s chest to slow him down. “Love, stop,” he adds when Dean’s hard to dissuade, grabbing at Castiel’s hips and chasing his mouth with kiss-swollen lips of his own. When Castiel continues to resist though, he stops and blinks lazily down at him with hazy, heavy-lidded eyes. 

“You alright?” He cups the side of Castiel’s face and steps back in from where Castiel’s crept away, bringing their bodies flush once again. Dean’s hard in his jeans and God knows Castiel is too, and for a moment Castiel can’t remember what, exactly, he was protesting here. “You feel good,” Dean murmurs, kissing his cheek and then his ear, which gives Castiel enough time to gather his thoughts. _Oh, right._

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers Dean. “Wonderful, even. But shouldn’t we... “ He hesitates a little, pausing until Dean pulls away and smiles down at him softly, waiting. “This should be more special, don’t you think? I mean, we’ve always been too casual with sex, that was part of the problem. We might have communicated better if we hadn’t been so busy letting our hormones do the talking.” 

The lines between Dean’s eyes deepen and he cocks his head to the side, looking a bit like Castiel in his confusion. It’s entirely adorable, and distracting, and Castiel wonders if he’s being a bit pedantic about this. “So you don’t think we’ve been communicating well? Because I—”

“Oh, God no,” Castiel interjects, letting his fingertips rest in the middle of Dean’s chest, soothing. “I think we’re in a great place now.” 

“Good,” Dean replies, his expression softening. “Me too. So then, what’s the issue?”

“It’s not an _issue,_ ” Castiel corrects him, toying with the buttons on Dean’s flannel. “I only thought it might be nice to make our first time special. That is, unless I’m misreading things. We _are_ close to getting back together officially, are we not?” A brief pang of fear stabs through Castiel’s chest. He’s not put himself out there so plainly, so readily able to be shot down in ages, and although he _thinks_ Dean is on the same page, history has shown that he’s not necessarily the best judge of that. At least where his own emotions might cloud the big picture.

Thankfully, Dean just smiles widely and intertwines their fingers, raising their hands up and tugging Castiel close so that they’re sort of slow dancing, despite the lack of music. “Thought we were already _officially_ back together,” Dean says cheekily. 

“Thought we agreed not to assume things anymore,” Castiel replies pointedly.

“Touché,” Dean agrees, leaning forward to steal a sweet kiss. “Alright, so, what? You wanna make a big deal of this, huh? Should we like, do some rituals and cleanses to restore our virginity or is this more of a romance thing?” Castiel frowns and smacks Dean on the chest with his free hand playfully.

“You’re an idiot.” 

Dean laughs and pulls him closer. “I _love_ you,” he says unexpectedly. “And I get what you’re digging at here.” He pauses for a moment, and Castiel drops his head to the crook of Dean’s neck, letting him continue to gently sway their bodies back and forth. “Okay then,” Dean says finally. “Leave it to me, alright?”

Castiel squints up at him from his perch on Dean’s shoulder, suspicious. “Leave it to you… how? Dean, we haven’t discussed anything yet.” 

But Dean just soothes a hand down Castiel’s back and drops his cheek to the top of his head. “‘M askin’ you to trust me. Think you can do that?” Castiel barely pauses before nodding his head against Dean’s chest.

“Of course,” he agrees. “So long as you understand why this is important to me.”

Pulling back just far enough to brace his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and look him in the eye, Dean actually appears serious and sincere, for once. “I get it, Cas,” he says. “When you put it that way, it feels important to me, too. I want this to be special for you, for us.” Filled with warmth and joy, all Castiel can do is smile and nod approvingly. “But for that to happen,” Dean continues, “I’m gonna need you to get out of here for a little bit. Deal?” 

“Deal,” Castiel agrees, although now he’s wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into. 

Both of them had seemingly forgotten that the reason Dean was even there was to work on Castiel’s car, so they temporarily postpone whatever Dean’s scheming about until after that’s finished. In the meantime, Castiel mixes up some lemonade from a concentrate can in the freezer and then kicks back in a lounge chair to enjoy the scenery. Dean alternates between bending over to work underneath the hood and using a creeper to slide beneath the car on his back. Either way, Castiel can’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing. 

Well, maybe _one_ thing, but he can be patient. 

When Dean finally surfaces to gulp down his third refill of the freezing glass of lemonade Castiel presents him, it’s been almost three hours. Dean’s muscles are shiny with sweat and he’s stained from almost head to toe with grease and oil. “Damn, that feels _good,”_ he says, stretching up on his toes and reaching for the sky in a way that makes his shirt ride up over his belly. Underneath, there’s tan, grime-free skin and Castiel’s mouth waters. 

“I changed my mind,” he says thickly. “Special is overrated. Let’s go take a shower.” He grabs Dean’s hand and moves to yank him towards the house, but Dean resists with a laugh, digging his heels in and refusing to be moved. 

“Nice try,” he says with a wink. Castiel huffs and glares, but Dean just shakes his head and reels him back in. “This was your idea,” he reminds him, kissing just underneath the left side of Castiel’s jaw, unfair tease that he is. “And it’s a good one.” He shifts so that his mouth is trailing the right side now. “Later, I’m going to take my time with you. But for now…” He presses a last kiss just below Castiel’s ear and then steps away, smacking his ass and shoving him lightly towards the car. “She should run smooth as silk,” Dean says with a grin. “Go wherever you want, but you can’t come back until…” Dean pauses to check his watch, tipping his head from side to side as he contemplates his secret plans. “Six? Six is good.”

“ _Six?”_ Castiel repeats in mock horror. “Dean, it’s just past noon. What the hell am I supposed to do for six hours?” 

But Dean just bites his lip and shrugs, backing up into the garage and wiggling his fingers in a teasing wave. “Bye, Cas,” he says right before hitting the buttons for the doors and essentially closing them in Castiel’s face. Unsure what just happened, Castiel stands in the driveway for a long moment before slumping into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Did I just get myself kicked out of my own house?” He mutters to absolutely no one. “Great going, Castiel, extremely smooth work.” Lacking any better ideas, Castiel shoots off a text to Meg and arranges to meet her downtown for a light lunch and an overdue conversation. Begrudgingly, he has to admit that it’s not the worst idea to take some time today to get some business taken care of, no matter how much he’d rather be wrapped around Dean. It’s not as if he won’t see him later, but Dean will just have to be the reward for a job well done. Meg texts back quickly and Castiel’s off, watching the house fade into his rearview mirror and unable to stop wondering what the hell Dean is doing inside. 

The purported light lunch turns into several long hours of snacking and (unfortunately) non-alcoholic drinks that wind up cluttering the table. While Castiel’s been wrapped up in everything Dean, decisions that still need to be made regarding his upcoming showcase have been piling up. If it weren’t for Meg (and that’s definitely what Castiel pays her for), he’d be worried about it coming together at all. But Meg reassures him that all he has to do is point and click, smile and nod, narrow down the staging for the space, and select a small assortment of various other details that are far from emotionally taxing decisions. 

By the time they’re packing up to go, it’s already almost four and Castiel feels accomplished. He stretches until his spine pops, shaking out his limbs, especially his right leg which has fallen asleep underneath him. Meg wheedles at him to come see a movie or troll the mall for God knows what, but Castiel declines, knowing that if he does either of those things there’s no way he’ll make it home by six. Not with L.A. traffic. Sure, Dean did say that six was the _earliest_ he could return, but semantics. 

Instead, after waving goodbye to Meg’s tail lights, Castiel drives in the other direction towards Studio City and one of the nicer parks near his house. There’s a walking trail and a pond and Castiel spends the rest of his time strolling the grounds and watching the ducks, feeding them the rest of the croissant he brought with wrapped in a napkin. It’s peaceful and pleasant with the cool breeze and warm sun and Castiel _almost_ doesn’t want to go home yet.

Almost. 

But when he looks down and sees six o’clock finally showing on his watch, the sky above dimming in early shades of red and gold, Castiel can’t deny that his anxiety-laced anticipation is back in full force. As he drives the short distance between the park and his driveway, fingers flexing nervously on the steering wheel, Castiel can’t help but think about how _big_ this feels. 

Not just whatever romantic gesture Dean is planning and the admittedly adult step of _scheduling_ sex so they could guarantee they’d both be prepared and ready for it, either. Although those are no small things, at least for the two of them. There’s also the fact that he’s returning _home_ to Dean who is using _Castiel’s_ space like it’s his own, like he belongs there. And Castiel _wants_ him to belong there again, so badly, he just hopes he’s not forcing something that’s not quite there yet. 

Despite all the talking they’ve been doing, it still feels hard to believe that he and Dean are actually on the same page now, after everything they’ve been through. Castiel supposes that’s what trust is for, though that concept is much easier to understand than practice. 

The gate to the property is open and Castiel closes it behind him, locking it and punching in the override code so that they can’t be disturbed unexpectedly. This _would_ be the day Garth or Sam or someone else tries to show up here out of the blue. Well, if they do, they’re going to find themselves shit out of luck because Castiel also intends to turn the inside intercom off, just for the night. 

Dean’s car is in the drive so he’s definitely here, though it looks as if it may have been moved in the time since Castiel left. There’s also what appears to be a balloon tied to the front door, bobbing and waving gently in the breeze. For a minute, Castiel wonders if Dean’s turned this whole thing into a joke and he’s about to walk into a spontaneous party with twenty of his closest friends yelling “Surprise!” and Dean laughing his ass off. 

That’s unfair, though, and Castiel checks his thought process without seriously entertaining the idea that Dean would screw him over for kicks. This Dean, this _new_ Dean (or maybe the same one from all along but Castiel wasn’t paying attention) seems to completely grasp the significance Castiel has assigned to this event, and he deserves the benefit of the doubt. 

What was it that Dean said in New York? 

_You always think the worst of me._

Those words sting when Castiel thinks about them in retrospect, but Dean wasn’t wrong. Both of them bear responsibility for how their relationship fell apart. Both of them let each other down in different ways. And if they want to keep building their shared life back up, _both_ of them have to change. That includes (and might even be most important when it comes to) the thoughts that pop up inside their own heads. Castiel can do better than that, _owes_ it to Dean to try. He thinks about how sweet Dean was as he was leaving earlier, the way he’d jumped at the chance to do something special for both of them, if only because Castiel said he needed it. 

_God,_ Castiel thinks. _That Dean deserves the entire world._

When he approaches the heavy wooden front entrance, Castiel notices that in addition to the balloon, there’s an envelope slotted between the handles and the actual door. “ _Castiel”_ is written on the front in Dean’s familiar blocky, slanted handwriting. Inside, the note says the following: 

_Cas,_

_I played it cool this morning, but when you said you wanted to make tonight special, I panicked. You know I’m no good with words and I’m worse with all this chick-flick stuff. But I thought I’d give it a shot anyway because you’re worth it. Also, Sam helped. A little._

_Come take a trip down memory lane with me?_

_-Dean_

Surprised and curious, Castiel pushes open the door and steps into the foyer. Ever since Dean moved out, this entryway has been pretty stark and barren, since Dean took with him all the art pieces and photographs that previously decorated the walls. Some he hung up in the Malibu house. Some, like their wedding pictures, Castiel had no idea what happened to and presumed they were destroyed. He’s used to coming home and seeing white walls, the only point of interest in the room the curving, sculptural stairway with the wrought iron railings that wraps around the inside of the foyer wall. 

Not today. Today, all of the pictures Dean had made off with into the night are back, and then some. They cover almost every inch of the walls, following the curve of the staircase up to the second floor and down the hallway leading farther into the house on this one. A hand over his mouth, Castiel gapes in awe, his eyes roaming the enormous display. 

Some of the pictures are painfully familiar; he spots the framed shot of the two of them kissing on the beach at their wedding right off the bat. Others showcase both recent and distant memories; candid shots blown up onto poster paper of both of them out with friends, at Sam’s graduation, on the red carpet at various award shows. There are prints from Castiel’s showcases and published works across the years, but only the ones that hold some sort of meaning to their relationship. 

And then, lining the hallway that stretches down towards the kitchen, are the pictures that started it all. Except, as Castiel peers closer, he realizes why they don’t look exactly as he remembers. On the left side of the hallway are enlarged versions of the photos that made their relationship famous, the pictures that followed Castiel and Dean as they fell madly in love. 

On the right, though, are the ones from a few short weeks ago. What Castiel recognizes now as (and what he _hopes_ Dean is equally trying to convey) photos of them falling in love again. Naturally, if one looks close enough, the tension is there. But there’s tension between them in the original set too, the fear of the unknown and uncertainty for what the future holds. Castiel happens to think the mirroring is quite poetic. 

Everyone’s always operated under the assumption that the original pictures went viral because of the _love_ between them, but Castiel’s eyes are open wide enough now to see that it was and is so much more complicated than that. He and Dean are complex, imperfect, and all that is there—in _both_ sets of photos. Balthazar had managed to capture the precise moment where Dean released Castiel’s mouth after surprising him in the pool, and their faces are _something fucking else._

Lust and fury, passion and rage, want and hope, all wrapped up in an excruciating mix of love _and_ hate. It’s _so_ much better, _so_ much more realistic than the posed shots before it. _Fuck,_ Castiel thinks. Why didn’t _he_ think of that? Instead of trying to hide the intricacy, the complicated mess of their feelings, Balthazar had run with it, and it _works._ Their fans would have seen through anything less, but this is _raw,_ it’s real, it’s… well, at the moment it’s making Castiel tear up violently. 

The rest of the series—so far—is similar. There’s an intensity to Dean and Castiel’s fight in the waves, the one he’d thought was so playful and carefree at the time. The photos show a reluctance and a lack of surety in their touches that dissipates into _longing_ and gated desire as the set goes on. By the time Dean’s straddling Castiel, the waves rushing in around them, it’s plain to see that the tension is about to snap.

The picture that follows that one is a shock. 

It’s Castiel standing in the shallows alone, an image he recognizes as his former self watching Dean stroll away up the sand with Lisa, his heart breaking in his chest. His hair is wild, dripping with water and full of sand, same as his clothes, but his expression is something he never would have allowed Balthazar to capture if he knew. It hurts to look at. 

Though it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the next one, which is a candid photo of Dean sitting on the hood of his Baby with his face in his hand, elbow on his knee. The background is the corner of the Malibu house and the overlook down to the ocean, the sun sinking pink and gold into the horizon. Dean’s shoulders are hunched, defeated. In the upper left corner of the picture, the curtains are pulled to Castiel’s room but his silhouette can still be seen behind them. It’s a _fucking_ masterpiece, and Castiel’s fingers trace over it in disbelief. 

The only picture after that, Castiel honestly can’t figure out how it even exists. He remembers Balthazar being at the meeting about the damage control for the sex tape, but he hadn’t even spoken, not once. Castiel can’t recall so much as seeing his camera on him, but he _must_ have had it and he _must_ have snuck this photo, because here it is. A candid, unposed, totally unprepared shot of the two of them glancing at each other like they have some sort of inside secret. Castiel remembers the moment well. 

The seated backs of Meg, Garth, and Sam’s heads are in the foreground of the shot, but neither Dean nor Cas is paying their team any mind. Dean had winked at him not two seconds prior and Castiel had smiled in response, holding eye contact until whatever Sam was going on about drew Dean’s attention away. Compared to each of the individual photos prior, this one shows progress, something changing between them. Their bodies are facing each other despite not being close, and while Castiel’s arms are crossed over his bare chest, his shoulders are pulled back and open. Dean’s arms are by his sides and he appears similarly receptive. 

It looks like exactly what it is; _a start._ A start to everything that’s brought them here, now.

With a sniffle and a drag of his sleeve across his eyes, Castiel does his best to center himself, to restrain the emotion he feels looking at all of this, taking it in. The photo set isn’t complete yet, it’s missing the happy ending, but the results are already so much more than he ever could have hoped for. Castiel’s suddenly endlessly relieved that he and Dean had started to repair their relationship before he’d seen these photos. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to handle them otherwise. 

Castiel starts when he turns towards the kitchen and sees Dean standing at the end of the hall, fiddling nervously with the spatula in his hands. “Cas?” His voice is uncertain, uncharacteristically soft, and a resulting sob gets stuck in Castiel’s throat even as he does his best to force it back down. 

“Dean,” he replies, voice cracking as he throws himself into Dean’s arms, making him stagger a little when he’s caught off guard. 

[ ](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/v2/1097x937q90/924/ocSSAU.png)

“Sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, hand cupping the back of Castiel’s head protectively. “I know, I… When Sam brought them over he stayed to help me put them up. Let’s just say, that reaction is a lot more embarrassing when your brother is watching. Pretty sure ‘m never gonna live it down.” Castiel half-snorts, half-sobs into Dean’s shoulder and clings tighter. “Cas,” Dean whispers in his ear. “Cas, I love you so fuckin’ much.” 

The reply sticks in Castiel’s throat but he nods against Dean’s shoulder which is growing increasingly damp. The arms around his back tighten and Dean rocks them gently from side to side until Castiel’s mostly recovered his dignity and control of his voice. His hands find their way to Castiel’s shoulders, pushing back gently until they’re staring at each other. 

“So,” Dean says, sounding slightly nervous again. “I, uh, thought you might like some options. We can hit the Jacuzzi, I have champagne chilling on ice out there. Or we can have dinner—I cooked, made a huge spread, all your favorites and peanut butter pie for dessert. Oh, and I have Tombstone queued up in the theater, we could eat and watch at the same time. Or we can—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, sliding a thumb across Dean’s cheek and pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Take me upstairs.” 

Everything about Dean’s body and the way it slides against Castiel’s own is exactly the same and yet so, so different, all at the same time. For that matter, Dean himself is different, attentive and sweet, free with his affections in a way that a month ago, Castiel would have bet money he’d never see again. 

For a very long time, they just kiss, and then Dean moves on to unwrapping Castiel from his clothes like a precious package that he wants to savor. His fingertips caress up and down Castiel’s sides as Dean mouths over every inch he can reach, from expected places like the pulse point in Castiel’s neck to ridiculous ones like his elbow and the inside of his knee. It feels like hours, days even, that Dean whispers promises into his skin, kissing and sucking and teasing mercilessly until Castiel’s shaking, begging, _pleading_ for more. 

Time goes sideways and the world seems to stand still when Dean’s finally inside him, moving slow and deep with his hand fisted in Castiel’s hair, holding his head so that he can’t look away. The room is airless and no one, nothing else exists besides the two of them and _this._

The intensity between them burns almost palpably, breath hot against skin and kisses wet and messy and open-mouthed. Dean’s hand slips between them, doing his best to bring Castiel off first and he barely has to try. When he comes, Castiel moans into Dean’s mouth and this time, when he says, _“I love you,”_ Dean’s so quick to say it back, to repeat it over and over, an apology and a prayer that rings in Castiel’s ears. When Dean’s body goes taut, spilling inside him as Castiel holds on as tightly as possible, it’s some kind of relief that Castiel could never put into words. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he could never have prayed for anything better than this. 

When they’re cleaned up and basking in the afterglow, each lying on their own pillow but facing each other, Castiel runs his fingers softly down the side of Dean’s cheek and jaw. The last rays of a fiery sunset are pushing through the partially curtained windows of the master bedroom and the golden light falling across Dean’s face makes him look so beautiful it’s surreal. His hair is tousled and his cheeks are ruddy, the soft, sated look on his face so perfect Castiel only wishes he had his camera to capture it. He supposes he could go downstairs and get it, or—

“Oh my God,” Castiel blurts out suddenly, bolting upright and causing the sheets to drop and pool around his waist. The motion catches Dean’s eye and he follows them down with blatant interest. Castiel ignores him. “Dean, hand me my phone,” he demands. “I know how to finish the photo set.” 

The pictures that round out the spread Vanity Fair publishes exactly one week before Castiel’s showcase and three weeks before Dean’s movie premiere are an instant hit. Their carefully-selected choices manage to wrap up the (accidental) angst theme of the shoot in a believable way that sets the internet abuzz. A lot of Castiel and Dean’s fans seem to accept the spread as confirmation that their suspicions about a deteriorating relationship were correct. At the same time, they also seem to agree that the photos seem authentic and that whatever public appearances the two of them have done since support the idea that they’ve kissed and made up. 

For his part, Castiel could hardly care less what his and Dean’s fans think. As long as Dean is happy pursuing the career he has, the public will always be a part of their lives. Recently, though, Castiel’s learning to take it more in stride, the way Dean does. It’s much easier to do that knowing Dean is oblivious, and not just performing or taking advantage. But at the end of the day, all that matters is what goes on behind closed doors, and there, he and Dean are happy. 

Things aren’t always perfect, but what relationship is? They both are often too career-oriented and their communication issues haven’t been fixed overnight. They see a discreet counselor who comes to them once a week, more if they need it, but most importantly, they don’t give up. They don’t pack it in or walk away or make assumptions about what the other is thinking and feeling. Likewise, they don’t take each other too seriously, either.

On the night of Dean’s movie premiere, he gets down on one knee on the red carpet and puts Castiel on the spot in front of hundreds of fans, cast, and crew, not to mention the millions of people who will see it from the comfort of their own homes via pictures and video. The devious smile on his face gives him away, but only to Castiel, who can’t do anything but pretend to get emotional and accept the ring. When they’re hugging, tuxedos wrinkling up between them, he whispers into Dean’s ear a low threat about _paying for this later,_ and Dean laughs before shivering with excitement in his arms. 

The reality is, Dean had proposed over a week prior, on the deck of the Malibu house with no one around and no cameras to catch it. The moment was romantic and intimate, despite Dean being wrapped in that stupid silk robe Castiel mistakenly thought was Lisa’s all those months ago. And Castiel can’t wait to renew their vows sometime next year. But Dean is still _Dean,_ and Castiel can’t even pretend he’s surprised that his husband would consider the fake, public proposal a hilarious prank and callback to their PR-obsessed days. Regardless, after suffering through that particular stunt, Castiel is more determined than ever to make sure there won’t be any cameras allowed at their second wedding. At least, none besides Balthazar’s. 

Incidentally, Bal seems to have made out better than everyone else in their little group combined, having been flooded with job offers and award nominations after his pictures went to print. He deserves it, he shot Castiel’s vision beautifully and wrapped up this portion of their story with grace and style. Of course, he’d been slightly taken aback when Castiel had called him out of the blue and basically told him, “the door is open, come up to the bedroom,” which you just can’t say to Balthazar and then be surprised when he assumes you’re offering a ménage-a-whatever. At least he’d thought nothing of being asked to bring his camera along. 

Despite having been printed and sold in a popular magazine for the entire world to consume, the pictures taken that day still feel private, and they don’t hang in the downstairs hallway with the others. No, these days they line the wall above the very bed where they were taken. Black and white shots of Castiel and Dean wrapped up together and wearing nothing but crisp, white sheets, they’re perhaps some of the best pictures Castiel’s ever seen. 

Admittedly, he’s biased, but the open love and affection on both of their faces, the way he and Dean are so clearly still basking in the afterglow—nothing about that type of picture can be faked, not like that. The best thing about the original set of pictures and now the recreations has always been how _real_ they seemed—like the viewer was stepping inside their world for a time, like they were _there_ in the room as the photo was taken, and these are the crowning jewel on the whole bunch. 

“Cas,” Dean calls out softly, drawing Castiel out of his reverie. “Hey, sweetheart.” He walks into the hospital waiting room with a dopey smile on his face and holds out a hand for Castiel to take. “They’re ready, you good?”

Holding his camera up, Castiel nods. “Of course. How are they?” 

“Amazing,” Dean replies, his eyes darting up to the ceiling for a moment as he tries to compose himself. “Perfection.” 

These days, Castiel’s photo projects are a lot less dramatic and a lot more personal, but no less intimate. He lets Dean lead him down the hall and into one of the marked rooms in the Labor and Delivery unit without further prodding, he’ll see for himself soon enough. Inside the room, Sam is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, his arm wrapped protectively around Eileen, his wife, who in turn is cradling their newborn daughter. 

“Cas!” Sam says excitedly. “Come look.” 

A swell of affection rises in Castiel’s chest for his brother-in-law, the gratitude he feels at being accepted as a part of this family again no small thing. Sam’s brand-new daughter is tiny, dwarfed next to Sam’s forearm as he strokes her little forehead and dark swirl of hair. Castiel takes out his camera and starts snapping without hesitation. “Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, putting a hand on the camera and gently pushing it down. “Not yet, go say hi first.” 

Castiel’s gaze darts between Dean’s face and Eileen’s, who smiles warmly and tilts her head towards the empty chair next to the side of the bed Sam isn’t on. As soon as he sits, Dean’s right behind him, rubbing his shoulders. “She’s beautiful,” Castiel says softly, signing at the same time he speaks. “Congratulations.”

A nurse bustles in, interrupting the moment and apologizing that she just needs to take Eileen’s blood pressure. Dean stops her, snatches the camera from Castiel’s grasp and hands it over. Castiel rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest, thankful that it’s preset and that the nurse should just be able to press the shutter button. “Just one, then we’ll get out of your hair,” Dean promises and she obliges with a patient smile. 

All the way down the elevator and out to the parking garage, Castiel can’t stop staring at that same photo on the camera’s small screen. The four— _five—_ of them all look so… _happy,_ so peaceful _._ When the elevator opens, the giant glass wall of the hospital lobby reveals several reporters and a handful of fans crowded together outside. Apparently, someone spilled the beans that Dean was here. They’re going to have to walk through that mess to get to the garage and into Dean’s car, but Castiel feels far less intimidated and annoyed than he used to. 

Holding out a hand, Dean smiles before leaning in to kiss Castiel’s cheek. “You ready for this?” 

A smile spreads across Castiel’s face as he accepts Dean’s hand and lets himself be led. “I’m ready,” he replies. “Together.”

“Together,” Dean echoes, as he pushes the door open to a chorus of their names. “Let’s go home.”

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK now that you've seen it, I just need to squeal ONE MORE TIME about Sunny's art—how about that rendering of Dean on Baby's hood WITHIN the picture?!?! Just. Perfection. If you would like some art like this of your very own, Sunny does wonderful commissions. *hint hint* *poke poke* Go support a wonderful friend and fandom artist!! [Sunny on Tumblr](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com/). Or bid on Sunny for Fandom Trumps Hate which goes live soon! 
> 
> I want to give a huge shoutout and thank you to all the regular commenters, you guys have no idea how much you are appreciated, especially those that take the time to contact me on other platforms and follow or say hi, I really appreciate you all. Sometimes it is hard to be a human in this world.  
> Come talk to me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
> [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Stick around if you liked this fic—I have a spn media bang, a pinefest, a spn dystopia bang, and the sequel to Wild, which will start posting very soon. I'm also doing [Fandom Trumps Hate](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com), which goes live for bidding on the 24th, so bid on me if you'd like a personalized story of your very own. Thank you all again, so very much.  
> Until next time. xoxox -Wings


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